


The Reunification

by Bees_Pen



Category: Deutschland 83, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 80s references, AU - 80s, Bad german, Cold War, Don't Need to Know about Cold War, East and West Germany, Espionage, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-28 20:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8461639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bees_Pen/pseuds/Bees_Pen
Summary: 1983.  Cold War Spy Drama. Generalmajor Petyr Baelish of the West German Army meets ballet dancer, Alayne Stein.  Except he doesn't believe her name is Alayne, and she may not be just a dancer. Heavily inspired by the TV series Deutschland 83.





	1. But that Girl is Not Alayne Stein

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is a little bit of Cold War espionage, quite a bit of romance and a smattering of 80s pop culture.
> 
> I know people may or may not be interested in the Cold War so I've tried to make this quite light on the specifics of war and more about Sansa & Petyr, general espionage and the very different lives in the 80s, West Germany (with NATO) and East Germany (with the Soviets). 
> 
> I have made some references so I've made an appendix which I will add to as I go so people can ctrl + F "appendix" and find names or abbreviations that may not make sense (those terms in the appendix will be underlined).

**1989**

**9 th November – 10.45pm – Berlin Friedrichstraße train station **

The ticket inspector still gave him a stern look, no doubt because it was all he had ever known in his life as a ticket inspector: to always be suspicious of people who crossed the wall; crossed between East and West. 

Except today was different. 

Petyr wouldn’t be asked to open his bags.  He wouldn’t have to worry about his cologne being too indulgent, it wouldn’t matter if he had a banana and he didn’t have to think about the various ways his book could be deemed ‘inflammatory’ to the communist, East Germans.

Very soon there would be no East and West Germany, there would just be… Germany.

“Generalmajor Baelish?  Aus Bundeswehr?” The inspector asked, raising an eyebrow at his documents.

“Ja.” Could the idiot not read properly?

“Sorry.  There aren’t many people travelling in this direction, especially not army personnel.” He explained, passing the documents back, “Most people are running out of East Germany, not to it.”  The mouth of the ticket inspector stretched to a smile but his eyes, deep set under thick eyebrows, were questioning him.

Of course he was right.  Thousands of people were desperate to leave the wasteland that Ulbricht and Honecker had left behind, and here Baelish was, running to it.  He deserved to be looked at like a mad man.

But he was mad. In a way.

 

**1983**

**Bonn , West Germany**

Ballet.  He never quite understood it as a story telling device.  It was too… simple.  Brazen, one may say.   Every hope, dream, intention and feeling revealed so unashamedly with the drape of a body and the stroke of a face.  Petyr preferred words and books, where the characters could think one way but act another.  It generally made for more excitement, he thought.

But it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate ballet.  The beauty of it, the skill, the endurance one needed to get their body to contort into those shapes night after night was truly something.  Tonight, watching The West German Ballet’s instalment of _La Bayadère_ was certainly one of the less torturous events General Baratheon had insisted Baelish attend, as one of his ‘inner circle.’ The only downside was that he had to spend the night with all these dreary army men – their counterparts from the other NATO countries – which basically left him sandwiched between some snooty British Colonel and an American Lieutenant General who had already run loose with the abundance of wine.

The worst part was talking to them.  Petyr had sat down with his glass of wine just before the curtain went up, when the English one started to talk.

“So Baelish, I have met General Baratheon’s family – his lovely wife and children.  I was rather hoping I would meet yours.”  He spoke like he had marbles in mouth.  He probably had marbles in his _head_ if he used the word ‘lovely’ to describe Cersei Baratheon and her eldest child (the younger two still seemed fairly innocent).

“Then you will have to tell me where I can find a family, Colonel,” he replied with a smirk and sip of wine.

“You mean to say a fine man like yourself hasn’t got a wife?”  Perhaps it was flattering to see the outrage on the man’s face.

“I can’t say I have tried very hard, of late.  You and I both know - more than the average civilian - what kind of world we live in… the risks.”

“So you would deny yourself happiness because of the threat of a nuclear attack?”

“I’m not denying myself of happiness.  I am happy.” At least he thinks he’s happy, though it’s increasingly harder to tell.  “But I think it would make me very unhappy to have someone to care for, to fear for their safety, and I certainly would not bring a child into this world.  We still have much work to do.”

The Englishman’s mouth dropped open as if to say something, to argue like the Brits always do, but there was a clash from the orchestra as the curtain was drawn up and the first dancers leapt across the stage.

They were entertaining, he thought, in that rather detached manner of a man who did not quite understand it all.  At one point, Petyr looked at the American next to him, how mesmerised he was by the frolicking on stage.  It could just have been the wine-induced fog he was in, but he was so dreamy-eyed Petyr had to wonder what he wasn’t seeing.

He followed his eyeline back to the stage, instantly seeing what it was that had him so spellbound. 

A new dancer.  Long limbed and weightless as she fluttered across the stage en pointe.  Her body arched into a bow as she spun, her arms flowing like water. 

Gamzatti – her character was called – the beautiful daughter of the Rajah who grows harder and more vicious in her attempt to remove her romantic rival, in the end, killing her with a snake bite.

This dancer was beautiful to be sure: her ivory skin peaking below the Indian-style dress, dark hair and stunning blue eyes which looked almost silver under the spotlight.  Every move she made drew him in further.  The tight lift of her legs, arms reaching for an embrace, her body arching as if hands were running up her waist.  Her neck bending as if a ghost were kissing the length of it. 

She could have been dancing for hours, or it could have been mere seconds – he had no idea - except that he watched her dance like every movement was for him, and he was that man touching her skin, holding her against his body and feeling her. 

The stage fell dark with smoke and lighting for the dramatic end, Gamzatti disappearing.  Dying.  Then the room was alight with applause.

He took a dry swallow and blinked out of the dream, realising everyone was on their feet in a standing ovation for the dancers.  Maybe this is what it meant to truly understand ballet, he thought, and then suddenly found his eyes settling on her.  The dancer. She bowed low to her applause, with a dimpled smile and fever-bright glare that seemed to catch him, if just for a second, before she unfolded and fell into ranks of other dancers.  She didn’t blend in well at all.

He felt warm and heavy when he walked out of the main theatre, as was often the case after spending two and half hours in a room with hundreds of people and burning stage lights.  Maybe he needed a cigarette?  No, he needed real fresh air in his lungs. So he excused himself from the group and stood out in the cold air of Bonn, taking deep breaths to clear the stale air in his lungs.

He spotted the poster for the production:

LA BAYADÈRE

**Nikiya** – Gisella Edel

 **Solor** – Alexander Rauch

 **Gamzatti** – Alayne Stein

 

_Alayne Stein._

It was a momentary distraction from the matter in hand: fabricating an excuse, something that would allow him to bow out of the rest of the evening of drinking with these bores, but it had to be something believable and reasonable.  Everyone knew he had no family to get back to, and his parents were dead.

He would feign a developing flu, such a well-used and clichéd excuse that people tend to believe it because who would use such as obvious excuse anymore?

He walked back inside, shaking a cigarette from his box, placing it between his lips and feeling around in his pockets (because this was not his army uniform) for where he had kept his lighter.  He spotted General Baratheon, huddled in a group of his intolerable extended family and a few others, and he walked over looking to explain his early exit with a feigned croak.

“Herr General – ”

“Ah! Petyr!” He cut off his excuses with a thump on the back and a toothy grin, obviously he had drunk many glasses of wine, he could smell it on his breath. “Look who we have found.”  He gestured between his wife and children to a young woman, now redheaded, but he would recognise her face, the slope of her neck, anywhere.

“Generalmajor,” Cersei smiled at him, coldly, though she was completely taken by the girl.  “Das ist Alayne Stein, she played the role of Gamzatti.  Wasn’t she brilliant?”

The redhead’s eyes clapped on him.  It reminded him of that deer he’d almost killed on the road one time, the perfect picture of innocence.  He’d broken his collar bone trying to avoid it.

“Ja, klasse,” he replied, risking eye contact with the young dancer and smiling, uncomfortably, though no one else would notice. 

She flashed a beautiful smile back, far more than he deserved for such a curt answer and he feared that picture would etch itself into his mind.  That vivid colour of her hair was always hard to forget.

He then casually lit his cigarette with the lighter he had finally found, as Cersei continued.

“I can’t believe they make her cover up her wonderful red hair for the role, but I suppose Gamzatti is Indian and they do not have red hair,” she smiled.  “She is a new dancer for the Company, you know?  It is probably the only reason she wasn’t playing the main role – ”

“Oh no, Frau Baratheon, Gisella is a fine dancer…” Alayne chimed demurely.  Petyr had a feeling the girl was still watching him.

“Such a sweet little bird,” Cersei smiled at her, “Anyway, I have asked Alayne and her dance partner to perform at the dinner we are hosting at our house in a few weeks.”

He had no clue what he was supposed to say to all this, only that he wanted to get out of here and guzzle a bottle of scotch.  Alone. And he didn’t want to think of more events he was forced to attend.

“I’m sure it will be splendid,” he obliged, “But Herr General, I’m afraid I must be leaving.  I have an early morning as you know and my throat is feeling a little rough – ”

“Oh, of course, of course,” the General replied.

“Thank you for inviting me.” He smiled at the family.  “Congratulations, again, Alayne.”

He was bid farewell, took a final glance at the dancer, before he turned and made his way out of the theatre.

He dropped his cigarette to the pavement outside, pausing to look at the poster he had seen earlier.  Alayne Stein, it said. 

But the girl he had just met was not Alayne Stein.


	2. A Talented Imposter

He thought of her more than he should have.  She was a stunning movie that went on and on in his head, fluid movements and bright eyes, although when he imagined her dancing it was with her natural red hair not the dark wig she was made to wear.

Most importantly, however, he wondered why she wouldn’t use her real name, since now he was convinced that Alayne Stein was not her real name.

He had come to suspect when he saw her real hair colour.  There had only been one woman in his life with that sort of hair colour (well, two, but only one worth remembering) – Cat - and this girl had a striking resemblance to her.

Cat and Petyr had lived together in Dresden, East Germany, when Petyr had been taken in by her family, after his father had died and left him an orphan.  Petyr grew up with Catelyn, her sister Lysa and brother Edmure, and as they grew his feelings towards Catelyn had matured into something very strong.  Love, he believed, no matter how much Catelyn tried to convince him otherwise.

Catelyn, however, believed she loved Brandon, the boy down the road.  Petyr had fought Brandon to be with Catelyn which, he now knew, was terribly foolish because Brandon was a fighting man and Petyr was a thinking man – how could he have matched him in a fight?  He should have challenged him to a chess game.  Needless to say, Brandon won.  And he was ashamed to think that Catelyn begged for his life.

“He’s like a brother to me!” She had cried. That stung almost as much as the deep cut Brandon had inflicted.  _Brother?_

Brandon, however, was from the Stark family, a family of imbeciles (Petyr thought) that refused to flee East Germany for the West when many other families were.  It was risky, yes, since the governing party had planted landmines along the border to stop their people crossing over, but life promised to be worse if they stayed behind.  The Starks didn’t want to take the risk, but Petyr saw it like his adopted family: ‘do or die trying.’

Petyr was convinced, when they were newly settled in Bonn, West Germany in 1961 – when the wall was fully up and prevented any further migration from East to West – that he could finally have Catelyn to himself.  Brandon couldn’t reach her now that she was in West Germany and he was still in the East, and she would soon realise that she did, in fact, love Petyr.

But she still didn’t love him.  She nursed him back to health.  She hugged him.  Sang to him. But she didn’t love him.

She loved Brandon, and she fled back East one night and never looked to return.

He heard some time later that Brandon had died; some simple illness like a bladder infection, but in East Germany you waited patiently for the state provided healthcare system which was decidedly underfinanced and inadequate.  He didn’t get the medication he needed in time, and then he needed a kidney transplant which the state just couldn’t provide for him fast enough.  So when he died and it was too late for Catelyn to come running back West, she married his younger brother, Ned.  She must have had many children, some of them must have been girls.  Some of them must have inherited her red hair.

And so Alayne Stein was not a Stein, she was a Stark.  He didn’t know what her first name was but she _was_ a Stark, he knew it, because her features were so much like her mother’s. The woman who destroyed him.  But the daughter was more beautiful, perhaps because she smiled at him with more warmth, her face was more kindly.

He was not concerned by the fact that she was an East German who had come to the West – there were many people who wanted to defect and if she could do it, then why not?  It was troubling, rather, that she didn’t use her given name and took on this fake name of Alayne Stein.  Defectors didn’t need to hide and change their name, not unless they weren’t defectors at all, and they were actually spies looking to avoid detection.

He looked into Alayne Stein, managed to get hold of some grainy photos of her ballet performances at the Graurheindorf Community Theatre and she did have lovely red hair.  The only problem was that she had been visited many times over the last two years by talent scouts and she had been passed over consistently – she had plateaued in her career, one may say.  That was all until three months ago when she suddenly switched theatre, away from the people who knew her well to be trained by strangers; and some talent scouts loved her performance.  They plucked her straight out of that production and into her role in _La Bayadère_.  Not only that, but she had suddenly become a very proficient contemporary dancer and acquired tap dancing skills.  A genuine shooting star, one may say.  Petyr would say, a talented imposter.

He did not think to do anything much about it at the moment.  She was a dancer and he could not see what damage she could inflict from that position, she wouldn’t find herself within reach of any military secrets there, so perhaps she was harmless.  Well, maybe not harmless, he still had to track down the real Alayne Stein, but she wasn’t an immediate threat.

That was what he had thought, until about a week later.  


* * *

  
Reports, reports.  Everyone wanted reports but few knew what to do with them.  They were so vague: the German Democratic Republic (GDR) _may_ have an army of X number of soldiers, they _may_ have intercepted our recent communication with the French, they _may_ have relayed details of our nuclear arsenal to Russia.  He did not want this world to be burnt to ashes over supposition. There had to be a concrete reason, at least.

He opened his office door with great force, ready to give another useless letter to his twit of an assistant, Joffrey Baratheon. 

Cersei had begged her husband, the General, to keep him out of danger when he joined the army because God forbid harm would come to even one strand of his golden hair.  General Baratheon, however, could not have a son who didn’t train and serve his country, so a compromise had been made, much to Petyr’s chagrin.  Joffrey would be Petyr’s assistant, helping him to compile strategy reports whilst also attending training, but he would never be put in harm’s way.  It had taken very little time to realise Joffrey’s incompetence.  Petyr ended up redoing most of his work, shouldering the load as Head of Military Intelligence and his own assistant.

Joffrey wasn’t in the reception when Petyr stepped out of his office, only his secretary, Ros, and the girl, Alayne Stein.

Alayne rose to her feet in a fright, drew her chocolate coloured fur coat closer around her and shifted her eyes around awkwardly.

Ros replied to the frown that had formed across his face.

“Generalmajor, this is Alayne Stein.  She is waiting for Joffrey, they are going to the opera together.”  Ros smiled whimsically at him.

“I see. I believe Fraulein Stein and I have already met,” he said dismissively. “I don’t know where Joffrey is but you can wait here.  Ros, can you attach this to the latest report?”

He left the letter with Ros, turned, and returned to his office.

He, of course, knew where Joffrey was likely to be.  He had a habit or knocking off early on Friday and visiting the local brothel with a few of his other degenerate friends – Petyr knew because he paid the prostitutes to keep any military-related secrets confidential should the boys spill them in the heat of the moment.  He knew which of them were regular customers for the girls. 

To think Joffrey was seeing a whore just before going out with such a lovely creature just made him fall further in Petyr’s estimations.  Actually, the thought that she had even agreed to go out with Joffrey, a thoroughly unpleasant and idiotic boy, was bizarre.  Unless that was her plan, or rather, the plan of the HVA – the German Democratic Republic’s secret intelligence service.

Now that would be cause for concern.  


* * *

  
An hour later and Ros had left for the weekend, Alayne still waiting for her date in the room outside Petyr’s office and the sky was pitch black. 

She was probably bored out there, waiting for Joffrey, not to mention Petyr found it so distracting to have her on the other side of the door.  Beautiful and dangerous.

He sighed, reached for a cigarette and clicked his lighter.  All he got was an effusive spark.  Again and again he tried, but nothing.  Ros always kept a lighter in her top drawer but that meant he may be obliged to talk to Alayne (he would call her that until he knew her real name).  She was Joffrey’s date, a woman he would never know and, probably, should never know.

How long could he go without a cigarette?

Not very long, it seemed, because he was at his door with a hand hovering over his handle about a minute later.  He gently opened it, found the young woman leafing through a magazine that Ros had left her with – the novelty of glossy, colourful pages with uncensored pictures must still be fresh. 

He smiled weakly, unlocked Ros’s top drawer and pulled out the lighter.  He would have just left but she began to close the pages of her magazine, as if she expected him to engage with her.  He supposed it was the polite thing to do.

“Do you want a cigarette?” He asked lamely.

“I shouldn’t.  It affects our stamina…” She said tentatively.

“Of course.” He nodded.  What a moron he was, no one wanted to have dancers wheezing through their performances.  “I can get you a drink… coffee or scotch.  Is that allowed?” She was very young, so it did strike him that she may not be able to drink alcohol. 

She breathed a laugh. “Ja.  Scotch would be very nice.”

He turned back to his office to collect the drinks from his bar.  He poured two glasses, turned and found her hovering at the threshold.  The perfect position for her hair to glow like a halo of wild fire under the lights.

He knew what he was about to do was not advisable.  It could well be that she had changed her mark, settled on him instead, but he did it anyway.

“You can come in, if you like.”

She did.  Taking the drink from his hand, she settled on one of his office couches and set it upon the coffee table.

“What is that? Some kind of military phone tapping device?” She joked, pointing at the device on his table.

He frowned a little in confusion, before realising she may not actually know.  She had said it as a joke – she knew military grade gear wouldn’t be left around like this – but there was a genuine question there. “No, it’s a walkman… for music.” They didn’t have those in the East?

“Oh, of course.  It’s so much nicer than the ones I’ve seen,” she lied.  He could see it in her eyes, she was playing off his perplexed reaction.  She had never seen one of these.

“Here,” he said, unravelling the headphones, “Do you like Billy Idol?”  He wondered if she knew that one, at least.

“I love Billy Idol,” she smiled brightly.  Genuinely.

He grinned back and passed her the head phones to place over her ears as he pressed play.  Her face grew even brighter when the music began, and he could hear the drum beat and faint but iconic guitar trills of _White Wedding_.

She was such a picture with her chic fur coat and silver ringed fingers contrasting the bright orange headphones.  And her gorgeous dimpled smile. 

Her eyes shut a little as she lost herself to the music and stayed like that until footsteps interrupted them.

“Alayne, there you are,” Joffrey called from the doorway.  At least Petyr had trained him enough to stay out of his office unless specifically invited.

“Joffrey!” She smiled widely, pulling off the headphones as she raised to her feet.  She was a pretty good actress.  Or didn’t know him well enough yet.

“What are you doing here?” He scowled at the surroundings.

“The Generalmajor was just keeping me entertained.  We were listening to Billy Idol on his walkman,” she smiled back at Petyr.  “It’s amazing, you should try it, Joffrey.”

“No, I’ve already got one.  We should go or we’ll be late for the opera.”

“Right, of course.”  She turned back to Baelish, “Thank you, Generalmajor, for showing me the cassette player.”

“No problem, Fraulein Stein.  I’m happy for you to take it if you want, I can always buy another – ”

“It’s alright, I’ll buy her one,” Joffrey interrupted. “Come, Alayne, the car is waiting.”

Then she was gone, throwing back an apologetic smile as she was escorted away.


	3. Whispering on the Telephone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!
> 
> So I feel I should say - because this is about the Cold War and it can be a controversial topic - that since this is written with a Western bias, I will inevitably say things that are less than complimentary about the Soviets, East Germans etc. as they were in the 80s, but I don't wish to offend people of those regions today since things have changed. 
> 
> I want this to be mostly about _the people_ and what it felt like to live through the tensions, so I've read up on life in East Germany and I will get Petyr to think about the other side of the story as well (because he's a thinking sort of man), but if anyone thinks I'm doing an injustice to anyone then please let me know. I can take criticism ;)

He checked his reflection in the window of the front door.  His appearance was generally pristine - even he would admit - with his fine clothes ironed and well fitted, trimmed beard and neat hair.  Even the grey patches at his temple weren’t so awful, he thought.  But this was a dinner party crawling with Lannisters - Cersei Baratheon’s family - and they wouldn’t forgive a hair out of place.

They thought themselves superior to everyone, but especially people like Baelish who did not have a long line of distinguished army men in his family.  People seemed to forget, however, that in Germany, a long line of army men often meant Nazi ancestry, and that was exactly what the Lannisters had.

The oldest living Lannister, Tywin, was always excused as having been ‘too young’ to be a Nazi.  You couldn’t possibly prove he did anything, people would often say, but everyone knew the reality of it.  And there Petyr was, made to feel inferior, looked at like something that belonged on the bottom of a shoe because he came from an immigrant family and worked all the way up the ranks from Private to Generalmajor.  Yes, his father was dirt poor and German was only his parents’ second language behind Polish, but at least they weren’t Nazis.  Tywin, for all intents and purposes, was a Nazi.

His reflection warped as the door opened, a sneering Cersei greeting him as he passed her flowers and a bottle of wine.  Cersei hated lilies, so he bought her a bunch of them, and secretly relished her ungrateful smile.

She lead him through to their large hall and abandoned him there, none of the usual pleasantries of offering a drink that one might expect of an experienced host, but he didn’t care. 

Within minutes he had been greeted by some of the other men, with a drink being shoved into his hand, and then got pulled into an inconsequential conversation with a French Major and his Italian mistress.  In truth he didn’t mind these parties because it made him focus less on how grave the military situation was – something that consumed him and his colleagues every day – and he could think about other things.  Be normal for a short time.

“Would you like me to freshen your drink?”  A voice rang behind him, cutting through the music.  She was distinctive in every way.

“Fraulein Stein, Hallo,” he said, turning to her. 

She’d certainly taken to dressing like a West German, that was for sure.  None of the dull fabrics and frumpy styles of austerity that he might expect, but rather clean and stylish lines that cut above her knee and accentuated her long neck.  And the deep purple suited her very well.

“Ja, I think I would much rather have a scotch on the rocks than… this.”  He explained, holding his drink up as if an alien object for her to inspect.

She grinned.  “It’s a Long Island Ice Tea, very popular with the Americans.  Come, let me get you a scotch.”

“What about you, do you like this Long Island Ice Tea?”

“No.  I don’t like tequila, I don’t like rum and I don’t like gin.”

He breathed a laugh and nodded, “So you don’t like to drink?”

“No, I like _some_ drinks… scotch, for example… and vodka.”

Of course.  It’s sometimes hard to get toilet paper and ketchup in the GDR but vodka is always available in abundance.  They could thank the Russians for that.

As she poured him a drink it was easy to see just how well the girl had done that night she went to the opera.  Her wrist shimmered with a new, diamond tennis bracelet which matched her earrings, and he couldn’t miss how ‘at home’ she was in this house.  Joffrey (or possibly his parents) wanted to keep her.

Petyr’s fingers accidentally brushed hers as he took the glass.  Or, maybe it wasn’t an accident and it was perfectly orchestrated by her, as was the way she seemed to lean her body into him a little and drown him with her eyes. 

He had to tear his mind away from her.  Think rationally.  Luckily other people came to ask her for drinks, and coo over her beauty and dancing, so he could just sit back and observe her at work.

It was smart, he realised, for her to spread her bets and go after multiple targets.  He didn’t know how many others she was working, possibly some of these men around them right now, but he hoped she saw _him_ as one of the tougher ones to get to. Petyr took pride in his wits - he certainly wasn’t an idiot like Joffrey - and thought himself a much juicier catch with the amount of information he was party to as Head of Military Intelligence.

She was very good, for sure, knew how to reel them in and which card to play with every different person she met.  The Innocent, The Temptress, The Simpleton. He was thinking about what would have happened if he hadn’t known about her faked identity beforehand – a disturbing idea because as much as he would like to think he would have figured her out eventually, he couldn’t be _sure_ , and he couldn’t be sure what she may have got out of him. 

“Alayne?”  Someone called in the crowd, her head whipping round just a fraction slower than it would have, had it been her birth name. “Will you dance for us now?  Rudy is here.”

Soon he was somewhere on the fringes of the crowd, looking over shoulders and permed hair as they watched Alayne and her partner, Rudy, foxtrot around the hall to Etta James, marvellous as ever. 

Many hours later, when the crowd swayed in a reverie of Long Island Ice Teas and jazz, he found himself at General Baratheon’s prized tropical fish tank.  He shook some fish food onto the surface of the water.

“Careful.  You don’t want to overfeed them or they’ll start to look like Robert,” a slurring voice said. 

Petyr didn’t need to turn to know who it was.  He smirked, “Don’t let him hear you, Tyrion, he claims to have lost 5lbs with his new diet.”

“Rubbish! You seem to have lost more weight than him without even needing to.” He smiled with slightly unfocused eyes and propped himself up on the chair so his short legs dangled. “How are you Baelish?  Is the stress diet getting you down?”

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned.  “As difficult as your family is, I have to thank them for giving me a reason to forget for just one night.”

“You know, there are other _very_ good ways of forgetting things at night… but alright then, let me ask you this: what do you think of the dancer?  My nephew’s new girlfriend?”

What a segue.  There could be no doubt that Tyrion knew what he was doing, he was the kind of obnoxious shit who would tease him about these things.  But he was the best obnoxious shit around at the moment.

“She’s nice.  Very...”  What could he say? Fascinating? Beautiful? Enticing? “… _Proper_ ,” he finally settled on.

“I don’t like her,” Tyrion said, so bluntly that Petyr almost spat out his sip of scotch. 

“May I ask why?” He couldn’t think how anyone could dislike her.

Tyrion smiled drunkenly at him, “Come closer, Genera-ral-major,” he stumbled drunkenly over the title.  As soon as that happened Petyr expected some silly or crass reason to come out of Tyrion’s mouth – he was too drunk for anything else.  Maybe her breasts were too small or he’d make some comment about her fire-crotch.

He grudgingly crouched down to Tyrion’s level.

“She’s an East German,” he hissed, “A spy for the HVA.”

“How do you know?” He frowned back in alarm.

“I heard her whispering on the telephone earlier, talking about ‘here in the West’ – why would you say that if you were already from the West? Why was she talking to someone in the East?”

He couldn’t fault Tyrion’s logic, no matter how drunk he was.

“But how do you know she’s a spy and not just a defector?”

“Because she was talking about missiles – why would a dancer talk about missiles?  And who would she have to tell but those Stasi pricks?”

Scheisse. How much did she know?

Petyr assured him he would look into it and extracted the promise that Tyrion wouldn’t tell a soul – he wanted full control over what happened with this secret.  He left Tyrion to drunkenly admire the fish.

He had a semblance of a plan in place – he planned for every eventuality - but everything so far had been purely academic.  It was just _his_ suspicion before, but now he had more evidence and more than one person’s judgement (and Tyrion was far from stupid), he had to do something.  Hand her in.  Imprison her.  There were lives at risk, after all.  _His_ life.

He needed a drink.

The music suddenly changed from slow jazz to the heavy beat of a Eurythmics song and he turned to the music player to see Alayne smirking at him.

“I don’t think Frau Baratheon will like this very much,” he gestured to the player, in a daze since he was still thinking about what to do with her.

“She’s half way through her second bottle of red,” she looked around, “Everyone else looks hammered as well so I think you and I are the only ones who care about the music… may as well put on something we both like.”  She paused while looking very judicially at his face, “Do you like the Eurythmics?”

He smirked, nodding, “Ja, I do,” although he was more impressed by her biting words, how quickly she had sussed Cersei out.  Such a shame that a bright mind would soon go to waste.

“Do you mind if I get a refill?  I can’t seem to find a bottle anywhere.” 

“I suspect the scotch is all gone, except…”  She just walked off into the depths of the house and he hesitantly followed her as she took him to Robert’s home office, opened a cupboard and removed a brand new bottle with a triumphant grin.  They really shouldn’t have let her crawl around their house like this; now he would have to get it swept for bugs and wire taps.

Very aware of how alone they suddenly were, he watched her pour two glasses, place one in his hand and clink hers against his before taking a sip.  He had given minimum participation to the whole thing, barely moving his fingers to grasp the glass, but it was still playing along.  He would not to show that he suspected her.

“Are you alright, Generalmajor?”

He smiled, in a way that he knew wouldn’t reach his eyes. “Please, call me Petyr.  'Generalmajor' is so formal.”

“Then you can call me Alayne.  'Fraulein Stein' sounds like an old schoolteacher,” she smiled as he looked away at the rest of the room, dimly lit by a few lamps, making their glasses and the liquid inside sparkle warmly.

“Is something wrong, Petyr?” She asked again leaning in a little. “It’s just you seem distracted again.” He hated how his body was quietly betraying him, revelling in the sound of his name coming from her lips and subconsciously responding to any of her movements. 

“Again?  Do I often seem distracted?” He raised his eyebrow.

“All of you army people seem to be - well - the senior ones anyway. I noticed it at the ballet, I see it when I go to your army base… tonight was the first time everyone really seemed to relax.  But now you have that face again, like you’re afraid to sleep in case you wake up to find the world gone.”  Her eyes were frighteningly blue as they burned into his.

Didn’t she know that could very well be the reality?  He didn’t want to scare her, enemy of not she was still so young and delicate.

“I won’t go into it, my dear, suffice to say that alcohol has done its job for today.  Everyone, for a moment, forgot what is at stake.”  He took a long sip, seeing her shuffle in her place in his periphery.  She finally perched on the desk fairly close to him.

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” she said meekly.

He sighed a long breath, in exasperation or longing, seeing the highlights of her face in the atmospheric lighting.  He could see the look on her face: she wanted to know more and it looked genuine, like she wanted to know just for the sake of knowing the truth rather than for any other ulterior motive. So he told her.

“Ronald Reagan and his Generals are over three thousand miles away.  They come to Europe for two, maybe three weeks at most, pushing their plans at us and telling us to get on with everything.  It is so easy for them to say the Soviets and East Germans are evil – they’ll never have to deal with the consequences…”

She nodded, “Because the missiles won’t be hitting their houses, they’ll be hitting yours.”

 _Your_ houses.  Not _ours_.

He winced.  “Exactly.”  He took a place next to her on the desk, far enough away to appear innocent but he could not help his eyes running the length of her long, statuesque legs.  This was not the right moment to imagine trailing his hand up the length of it, feeling soft skin and the muscles of her calf and thigh.

She gulped her drink and looked at him.  Well, his profile, as he refused to look her in the eyes again – he believed she would be able to see what effect she was having on him.  She would break him.

“It makes all these things like dancing and parties seem rather inconsequential, does it not?” Her breath, mingled with notes of scotch, gently whispered against the side of his face.

“Quite the contrary.  That is exactly what we are fighting for; we fight for people to have the happy memories of a party or a beautiful dance instead of worry and pain.”

He chanced a look over at her, staring her straight in her pained eyes as she hung on to his words. He didn’t think they were particularly special words – they were the truth - and many politicians on either side of this Cold War had said much the same to their people.  Hadn’t he just seen Honecker on the television saying something similar in one of his many rally speeches around East Germany?

But then he thought, maybe she hadn’t realised that people in the West don’t want this war either?  He imagined the Stasi, The East German Ministry of Security, would have censored much of that out before it got to her.

Their eyes were still locked on each other and he was so sure hers were darkening, her cheeks were flushing. 

He heard the sound of smashing glass.

“Oh, sheisse…” She murmured, looking down.

She had dropped her tumbler of scotch on the hard ground, and quickly she was bending to pick up the shards.  Frenzied.  Agitated like he had never seen her.

“Alayne, be careful – ”

“Ah!” She cried as one of the shards cut her finger.

He quickly brought her back up to stand and inspected her bloodied fingers, aware of her eyes on him, watching him work.  Her ring finger was bleeding profusely, a trickle of blood running down it, and without thinking he took it to his mouth.  This is what he instinctively did whenever he got a papercut at work but, now he thought of it, he wasn’t entirely sure how appropriate it was to do it to others. 

He looked to her to see if she was troubled in any way, only to find her wide eyes gazing back, seemingly willing him on.

His tongue wrapped around the tip, tasting the iron of her blood and a slight saltiness to her skin as he mopped the blood off her delicate finger. She whimpered a little as he sucked, a sound that - shamefully - went straight to his cock.

She watched him while he gently pulled the finger from his mouth to see the bleeding had reduced, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around.

“Press your fingers together, like this,” he showed her, “It’ll keep pressure on the wound.  It’s not very deep but you should get a bandage.”

She nodded and bit her lip.  “What about the glass? It was crystal - ”

“Robert won’t care, but you should get back to the party,” he said, guiding her to the door.  What he didn’t say was that she should get away from him.  He realised then that his hand was placed on her arm, so soft and fragile, like a feather.

Before she left she turned back to him, he didn’t stop fast enough and it brought their faces close enough, as if they were about to kiss.  Maybe she had been about to kiss him and decided against it.

“Danke, Petyr,” she whispered and left in a cloud of her lemon and verbena scent.

Thank goodness she was gone.  He could think slightly clearer now, or so he thought anyway.  But at some point while he was cleaning up the glass he had decided that he wouldn’t turn her in just yet.  Perhaps it was a foolish decision; even worse because he wasn’t telling anyone else, but there was no point until he could be sure she was relaying intelligence.  Maybe he’d figure out her plan before that?  They could try to turn her double agent?  Maybe he’d find out her network?  Robert always had a very crude way of dealing with these things.

Just as he’d settled on that, he had an awful niggling feeling, like he was doing something palpably wrong.  He quickly swept the room to see if she’d managed to sneak any listening devices in, relieved to find that she hadn’t, and then exhaled deeply and ran his fingers through his hair.  What was going on in head?

He left the party soon after, walking past Tyrion who was completely knocked out on the couch.   
  


* * *

  
Just in case you want to see the show that inspired this fic, I've put a trailer and clip for _Deutschland 83_ below which also gives a quick idea of how East Germany and West Germany were different.  I don't have any self-interest in promoting the show but it was really good (in my opinion) so you may want to watch it if you're finding this fic interesting.  I believe it is still free and available on Channel 4 on demand in the UK but I'm not sure about in other countries, sorry!

Trailer:  


Clip:  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did everyone think? I hope it's still quite clear to everyone but let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Update for _Kiss of Death_ is coming soon. It's not on the back burner behind this one, just a tough chapter :)


	4. What is at Stake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you to everyone bothering to read this. I knew it was a risky concept in the first place - politics is always unpredictable - but it's so encouraging to see the supportive comments and I love reading them (whether compliments or criticism)!
> 
> Secondly, I thought I'd publish this today because (little history factoid here) the 9th of November 1989 was the day The Berlin Wall opened for free migration between East and West Germany (i.e. reunification of the country began) and that's kind of what this story is about :) 
> 
> WARNING: minor reference to date rape and date rape drugs but nothing detailed.

A month later and he hadn’t gone anywhere near her.  He still kept an eye on her activities, he still greeted her if she ever came to the camp to meet Joffrey, but he was never alone with her again.  There was no real cause for it now, and instead he concentrated on his work and Joffrey’s work. 

He had taken on basically all of Joffrey’s work, not just because he was proving more and more useless by the day, but also to minimise the amount of sensitive material he got his grubby paws on.  The less he knew, the less Alayne could find out.

But, it seemed, after a month his luck had suddenly run out.  Again, it was a Friday and, again, Alayne had come to wait for Joffrey.  Ros was now familiar with Alayne – quite fond of her, actually - he would sometimes hear them talking about a movie or some nice coffee shop in town.  Sometimes she would even stay after her work hours to chat to Alayne if Joffrey was late.  But Ros had a date today, which meant leaving exactly at 6pm and also meant that Alayne was alone on the other side of Petyr’s door.

He had his lighter, cigarettes, a cafetière of coffee and some scotch.  He could see out this time in his office without having to see her.

Except his phone rang.  And it was Joffrey.  The imbecile had managed to get mugged near the brothel (Joffrey hadn’t mentioned the brothel, obviously) and wasn’t in a position to see Alayne.  Could he take her home?  Make an excuse on his behalf?

Petyr grumbled to himself.  He was really quite busy and didn’t have the time to chauffeur girlfriends around town, but this was the _General’s_ son, so he had to do it.

He opened his door to find Alayne with a book.  _1984_ by George Orwell.  What would the  HVA do to her if they found her reading such seditious material?

She didn’t get up in the frightened way she used to when she first started visiting the camp, she only smiled up at him.

“Hallo, Generalmajor… Petyr,” she corrected with a smile.

“Alayne, I’m afraid Joffrey is on a night training exercise and he seems to have forgotten to tell you.”  That seemed pretty convincing as an excuse, playing to the idiocy of the boy.  “I’m to take you home.”

“No, please,” she waved her hand at him, “I’ll just take a bus back to the city.”

His eyes raked over her form.  Knee high boots, body hugging black dress, a light grey fur (different to the first) and bigger diamond earrings than he’d seen on her before.  She would have the entire city running after her like dogs, if not for her number, then for her possessions.

“You’re not taking a bus dressed like that,” he smirked.

She shyly swept a lock of her satiny red hair behind her ear, a tint of rose colouring her cheeks. “Okay," she smiled, "I just... don’t want to interrupt you while you’re working.”

“It’s fine, I’ll do it later,” he explained, “I’ll just get my things together and we can go.”

 

A few minutes later he was opening the door for her to get into his Cadillac and giving her his briefcase of files to hold.  She had stared up at him with her big, blue, devious eyes as he handed it to her – she knew there would be something good in there, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to read any of it with him there. 

She took the crooked smile he gave her as a kind gesture, but he meant for it to be far darker.  It was a little tease. _You’re not getting anything Stark._

They were quiet as they drove through the city, the silence filled with only the sound of the radio.

 _We are young,_  
_Heartache to heartache,  
_ _We stand..._

“So what were you and Joffrey going to do?” He finally asked.  The silence they had found themselves in was unbearable.  Contrived.

 _No promises,  
_ _No demands..._

“He was going to take me to dinner.”

_Love is a battlefield_

Petyr looked over to her for a split second, “So you haven’t had anything to eat? You must be starving.”

She shrugged, “I’ll find something at home.” He noticed her fingers tracing the edge of the briefcase.

 _We are strong,  
_ _No one can tell us we're wrong..._

“So you cook?”

“Not very well… and I’m not sure what to make with just some coffee, apples and rye bread,” she laughed gently looking over at him.

_Searching our hearts for so long..._

He grinned. “Is that what they feed dancers these days? That’s awful.”

“We have to stay trim,” she added playfully.

He thought for an instant.

 _Both of us knowing,  
_ _Love is a battlefield..._

Then he flicked his indicator, “Come, let’s get you something to eat.”

 

He pulled into a fast food joint, watched as her long booted legs spun out of the car.  They did something to him.  She did something to him.

At the counter he ordered a cheeseburger and she got a hot dog, with fries and milkshakes for both.  Everyone looked at them strangely, the army man nursing his briefcase and the gorgeous, richly dressed redhead coming to eat food pumped with fat and chemicals.

“I know it’s not fancy…” he began, rubbing his greasy fingers on a paper napkin.

“Nein,” she covered her mouth politely to swallow a bite, “It’s very good.  I’ve never really got to eat this stuff.”

“Because you need to stay trim?” He teased, but in his head he thought: because you don’t have this in East Germany.

The television in the fast food restaurant suddenly turned from some Kraftwerk music video to a run of news stories, settling on a speech by Yuri Andropov, currently the chairman of the KGB but widely believed to be the next Head of State for the USSR. 

 _“Ronald Reagan is an arrogant, hungry, capitalist,”_ he hissed in Russian. _“He will not rest until he has corrupted our society with his greed or destroyed us.  Never forget that these people in West – the Americans and their minions – their missiles are pointing at your houses...”_

Petyr had to read the subtitles on the screen, his Russian being a little sketchy, but Alayne simply looked at her food.  He could see it was not for lack of interest, as she tried to pretend it was, something in her eyes told him that.  Her gaze locked in concentration at the table, slow measured breaths, cogs turning in her head - she didn’t _need_ the subtitles.  She knew what was being said.  She knew Russian, as all those who were educated in East Germany did.

He couldn’t read her beyond that. Were these words solidifying the belief in her cause, spurring her on?  Or were they pulling her back from the influence (the enlightenment, he would say) of the West?  He hadn’t forgotten that copy of _1984_ in her handbag.  Or – and he really hoped this was the case – could she now see, having finally come West, that all these words of her leaders were manipulative and untrue?

Neither really talked for the rest of the meal.  Actually, she didn’t really eat the rest of her meal, just waited politely for him to finish and sipped on her milkshake with a vacant look upon her face.

“Alayne, are you alright?” He asked when he pulled the car door open for her.  The parking lot was dark so he couldn’t see much more than the occasional twinkle of diamonds and her eyes as they caught the light of the gaudily illuminated restaurant sign.

“Ja, Petyr.” She stepped closer to get in but stopped face-to-face with him. “Why?”

“You seemed worried… by the news.” 

“Just a reminder of what is at stake,” she whispered because they were so close now, the words an echo of what he had said to her weeks ago.  Her lips parted, plump as she looked back at him with her lost eyes.

He didn’t really think when he leaned in to kiss her.  Just a moment, and then he pulled away to feel her release a breath against his cheek, drawing back a little further and he could see her dark eyes.  She had the clarity of mind to look confused, act like it wasn’t what she had been expecting from him the whole time; like the brilliant actress she was. 

Then she leaned forward and kissed him with more conviction.  Passion.  Her lips were so much softer than he’d ever imagined, and he found himself tilting his head into her and running his tongue along her bottom lip, begging for entry. She eagerly took him in with a moan and draped her arms around his neck to pull him closer, clutching the nape.

Her kiss was so deep and raw, he felt something in him awakening. Like his body was ablaze.

His hand slid from the car door, the other dropping the briefcase to the ground so he could slide his arms under her coat to settle on her rear.  He felt them both lean back against the car as her hand ran through his hair and she deepened the kiss with a slight gasp.

Dilemma, guilt, confusion sparked, but quickly disappeared when one of her hands clutched his lower back, pulling him flush against her body.  He groaned at the new feeling of her leg against his erection.  Fuck, she’d know how hard he was.

Her hips started moving, gently pressing into him with a slight whimper erupting from her mouth, a groan from his.  He pulled his lips away from hers, finding it harder to stop himself as he began to kiss and nip along her jaw and neck, lingering on the soft skin below her ear. Her hand trying to pull him even closer against her as they both rutted gently into each other.

He didn’t know when he pulled her leg around him.  Her hand pulled tighter on his ass while his fingers worked up her thigh, under her dress, towards the heat of her centre.  When he found her panties they were soaked.  She wanted him. 

Wait, she _really_ wanted him?

And it was like all the thoughts came flooding back again.  He suddenly remembered who he was and who she was. This girl was almost definitely an East German spy and she was doing this to get information out of him.  Did that make this wrong?  That he was taking advantage of her willingness when he knew he was never going to give her the material she wanted?

But, fuck, she was really wet.  He breathed into her neck as he stroked her through her soaked panties.

“Petyr,” she moaned – pleaded – moving to cup his weighty erection.

No he couldn’t do this.

He removed his hand from her centre, her hand was unmoving.

“Alayne,” he panted as he broke from a kiss, resting his forehead against hers and placing his hands firmly on her shoulders.  It took a lot to push his body off hers. “We can’t do this.”

Her hair was slightly tousled and her fur coat had dropped off one shoulder.

“What?” She breathed, confusion burning in her eyes.

“I’m taking you home,” he stated, righting his appearance and picking up the briefcase before he went over the other side of the car.  It hadn’t even crossed his mind before, that he was about to finger her in a public parking lot.

He sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for her to collect her thoughts, still glued to that spot he had left her in. It’s alright, he would wait.  He needed the time as well.

After a short time he noticed her out of the corner of his eyes snapping into action, pulling her coat around her and fumbling into the car.  Not a moment of eye contact then or at any point on the way to her flat in the city. 

He dropped her off with a quiet exchange of ‘goodnight’ and watched her walk to the door of her apartment block.  He didn’t wait, as such, but he was still there in a haze when she flicked on the light up in her apartment.  He watched her shadow move against the curtain, then he drove off down the quiet street.

* * *

  
The next day he made it a point to call Joffrey into his office, his eyebrow still swollen and bloodied from his altercation at the brothel.

“You can’t keep having your girlfriend waiting in my reception for you to turn up,” Petyr began. 

The boy wanted to retort but he waved him off.

“It’s a security risk, Joffrey. This may not be an outright war but do not be mistaken, we are in the middle of a war.  We can not have un-vetted civilians walking around our base.  I can not have her sitting outside my office!”  He took a breath to calm down.  “From now on she should wait outside the camp, at the barriers like all the other girlfriends, unless you want to give me all her documents so she can be vetted.” He knew full well that Alayne, if she was smart, wouldn’t put her documents up for such intense scrutiny if she had anything to hide.

“But my father – ”

“Your father would say the same thing.” He said bluntly, then dismissed him when the boy had nothing more to throw at him.

* * *

  
Come see Alayne’s new dance show.  How difficult could it possibly have been to say no and come up with an excuse?  But he had hesitated, just for a second – at the sound of her name, not because he couldn’t come up with a lie in time – and General Baratheon took that hesitation as an acceptance.

It was the most painful hour and a half of his life, to watch her in a tight leotard, stretching the leg she had once latched around him.  Watching those men hold her and breathe against her neck like he had. 

It was a contemporary dance so sensual that he would probably have grown embarrassingly hard, right there in the second row, if it wasn’t for how jealous he was of the other dancers who got to be with her.

At the end he just wanted to get out but that was never how these things went.  He was pulled into meaningless conversations but, finally, saved (sort of) by Tyrion.

“Petyr!” He shook his hand pulling Petyr down and closer to him. “What did you think?  Little bit raunchy, wasn’t it?” He asked in what he may have thought was a hushed tone in his mildly inebriated state.

“It seems that is the way these days.  Have you seen what that new girl, Madonna, likes to do in her music videos?” Petyr smirked.

“Ho, ho!  Yes… _You must be my lucky star_ ,” Tyrion mimicked her high-pitched voice with a roll of his head and swish of golden hair, and then burst into a raucous laugh.

Ignoring the show, Petyr lowered his voice, “I still haven’t forgotten what you told me about her.”

“Told you about who?  Madonna?” Tyrion asked chuckling.

Petyr scowled, “No.  Alayne.”

“When did I say anything to you about Alayne?”

Petyr raised his eyebrow, “At the party… at Robert’s house, about a month or so ago.”

“Oh… Sorry, Baelish, I seem to have forgotten.  You know me, drunk as a fish at all these occasions,” he guffawed, “Although _that_ night was pretty bad.  I blanked out!  I haven’t blanked out in many years, and I don’t think I even drank _that_ much… anyway, I remember very little of the whole night so you’ll have to tell me what I said.”

Blanked out?  With very little alcohol?  Petyr didn’t like the sound of that.  It was suspicious, and oddly like those news stories with young girls in nightclubs.  Maybe she’d drugged him when she thought he had heard her phone conversation?

Drugging is a little more vicious than he had expected from her.

“Baelish, what did I say?” He urged at Petyr’s pensive frown.

“Oh, nothing.  Just that you thought she was with Joffrey for the family money,” he lied.

Tyrion chuckled, “Oh, of course.  Why else would she be with Joffrey?  For his sweet demeanour?”  He carried on laughing to himself as he found his way to the bar. 

Petyr took his opportunity to slink away before Alayne had a chance to find out he was ever there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know the scenes don't exactly flow straight into the next but, I don't know, it feels like one of those stories where it's about the significant encounters and moments piecing together rather than having a continuous commentary.
> 
> Let me know what you think! x


	5. The Nail in the Coffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So _Kiss of Death_ is causing me some grief and this fic is already mostly written up so I thought I'd edit and publish this instead. It makes me feel better.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was Tuesday night, around 8pm and Petyr was sifting through transcripts of some phone calls they had intercepted.  These ones were different, though, no one knew these particular lines were tapped except for him because he had organised it.  
  
Not long after he had dropped Alayne off at her flat that one time, he had gone back to fix the bug on her line and that of the nearest telephone booth.  He didn’t have the time to sit and wait for her to make calls, so he entrusted the radio surveillance of her lines to Olyvar, a young Oberleutnant who he could trust to be discrete about these things.  He was to bring all the transcripts straight to Petyr and to never ask questions about his particular interest in this person.

Alayne made and received many calls but most were insignificant.  Of course, he had guessed that she was communicating in some other form – code, for example – and making drops around the city to other contacts.  However, she had made one call the other day from the booth that wasn’t about rehearsals or going to the cinema. 

“Das Hotel,” she would keep saying, without needing to specify which one to the other caller.  They already seemed to know. The unidentified man would talk dates and times, and Petyr let some… discomfort shoot through him, just for a moment, at the thought that he was reading about their plans for a midnight tryst.  He knew this, of course; he had even admired her logic in going for multiple targets but it was still uncomfortable.  Who were these men and how much information were they giving her?  Would she lose interest in him?

His eyes had drifted over the rest of the page, reading without truly absorbing, until he hit upon a word, _Stratege_.  Then another, _Soldaten_.  Then some numbers.  Strategists, soldiers - it was starting to look less and less like a tryst and more like the fragments of some plan.

His eyes darted back over the page, he flipped over the many others that followed. Then he saw the nail in the coffin: _Kamerade_ – comrade. Fuck. 

_Fuck._

This was her superior she was talking to.  Well not superior, ‘they were all equal’ apparently, all ‘comrades,’ but this was a member of the Stasi and she had relayed information. Information about the NATO Security Convention that was due to take place on the outskirts of Bonn in two days time, at The Steigenberger Grandhotel.  From the sounds of it, she knew which NATO officers would be in attendance and, most importantly, that they were to discuss a security report being written by Willas Tyrell, the Head of NATO Strategy. 

They were going to bug them.

He picked up the phone and punched an extension.  It rang and rang, for an eternity he felt, but he hung on, each ring drilling in the fact that ‘Alayne Stein’ was an East German spy.  This was undeniable confirmation. 

It felt like he had hung on for hours waiting for Robert to answer, his eyes still scanned the page in disbelief. No, not disbelief, desperation.  He was desperate for those words to change.

It was only at that moment when he hung on for the General that he noticed the most peculiar word of them all: _Spottdrossel_.  She had mentioned it many times.  ‘ _Spottdrossel_ has meetings at the house,’ ‘S _pottdrossel_ knows him well.’  A codename that he could make no sense of until she finally said that ‘ _Spottdrossel_ would be staying across the hall from the strategist.’  He suddenly knew who _Spottdrossel_ was because he, himself, would be staying across the hall from Willas Tyrell in a few days time.   He was _Spottdrossel_ – the mockingbird.

He didn’t know what to make of the name.

 _“Ja?”_ An impatient bellow jolted him.  He was so far away in that moment he had probably missed the first few calls.

“Oh – Herr General, it’s Baelish – ”

 _“Baelish, it’s not a good time.”_ Which was Robert’s code for being drunk.

“It’s an emergency, Herr General...  It’s about the convention.”

He heard a wheezy sigh through the phone and then a grudging, _“Ok,”_ which started Petyr’s account of the findings.  He was not one to ramble, but he did not mince his words about it.  They needed to cancel, postpone, do anything so that the  GDR or whoever they would send would not get into this thing.

_“We can’t cancel or postpone, Baelish.  This has been planned for six months, we have 26 officers from around the World travelling here solely for this. Fifteen Americans, including the General, himself.”_

He had truly had enough of kissing American asses.

“I don’t recommend it,” he tried to sound forceful yet polite, if it was possible.  “I believe we should change the location.”

 _“In_ two days _? No.  It can’t be done...  I will ask the Generalleutnant to organise for heightened security,”_ Robert offered, _“But we can not cancel.”_

It wasn’t enough for Petyr, but the General had made a decision.  The show would go on.

He was about to hang up before the dreaded question. _“Do we know who it is?  Anything about their identity? How they got the information?”_

Petyr paused.  Alayne.  No doubt she had learnt this all through Joffrey.  He had even seen him boasting to the other soldiers on base, about the ‘important documents’ he had access to as Petyr’s assistant, and all the discussions his father and uncle had at home about the Convention.  Petyr knew the documents _he_ gave him had nothing, but he could not be sure what Joffrey was hearing at home.  What he had told Alayne.

 _“Baelish, do you know who it is?”_ Robert urged impatiently.

He didn't know why – what possessed him – but he said it.

“No, Herr General.  No I don’t.”

Then he hung up.

He must have spent a good minute staring down at the transcripts. Why did he keep it a secret? It was becoming incredibly unclear, even to himself. She was an HVA agent, an adversary.  The opposition.  What were his reasons? 

Maybe he wanted to corner her himself, as a personal victory of sorts; maybe it was to try and use her for the benefit of the West. 

Maybe he liked the fact that he finally had an opponent worth playing with.   
  


* * *

  
The intercom buzzed.

“Ja?” Petyr asked shortly, looking up from the file he was reading.

 _“The General would like to see you in his office,”_ Ros said over the intercom.

Since they had just had their morning strategy meeting, Petyr had very little idea what the General could possibly have to say to him that he could not an hour ago.

“Did he say what it was about?  If I need to bring anything?”

“No, Generalmajor, just that you should be there as soon as possible.”

Petyr brushed his blazer off just before putting it on, making sure his appearance was pristine.  He took a file of the latest intelligence just to be sure, just in case it was a clarification that the General required, and made his way to the General’s office, his receptionist allowing him to go straight in.

When he got there he saw Robert smoking a cigar with a glass of amber liquid on his table.  It was 11 o’clock in the morning.

Then he turned his head to another presence in the room:  Joffrey.  The boy had a stupidly haughty expression on his face, totally unrepentant about the fact that he was three hours late reporting to Petyr.

“Herr General.”  Petyr saluted. “You requested my presence?”

“Stand down Generalmajor,” and Petyr relaxed from his stance. “Joffrey mentioned that you have stopped Alayne from entering the base because she’s un-vetted.”

“I believed it was a security risk, Herr General.”  And now he knew it really was.

“Of course, it was the right thing to do.  But I have got the men in personnel to vet her and she’s clean, so I believe she can now return to base?”

He could see Joffrey’s mouth curl into a sneer out of the corner of his eye.  He doubted Joffrey cared that much about Alayne – of what Petyr had seen, he treated her so carelessly – it was probably more to do with asserting some sort of authority over him.

“But what about the other men and their girlfriends?  If we make an exception for Private Baratheon, who is to the stop the other men from getting their girlfriends vetted and into our base?  What next, all their families?”

The General chuckled before taking a drag of his cigar. “Those boys aren’t my sons, Baelish - at least, I don’t think they are.  They won’t be asking for the same privileges.”

Fucking nepotism.  That deadbeat boy was going to get everything: a beautiful girl and an express line to the position of General.  That’s if they weren’t slaughtered by the East first.

“I’ll be leaving this security pass at the gatehouse for her, it has my signature on it.” Robert waved a card at him.

It was another opportunity to mention his surveillance and what he had found out about this supposed ‘Alayne Stein.’

But Petyr simply nodded in understanding and listened to Robert speak about the improved security for tomorrow.  _Three times_ the number of men they had originally planned on taking for patrol, guards outside all the rooms, locked safes in each one.  And Petyr would store the report in _his_ safe, not Tyrell.  It was an improvement.  Almost enough to satisfy Petyr. 

When he returned to his desk he thought about Alayne.  How she passed the vetting procedure, he did not know.  Maybe there was an HVA agent in the passport office, maybe there was one in the personnel department of the army.  They were crawling all over the place and he would have to get people to look into that but, most importantly, he would have to deal with Alayne.

And fast.

He thought how ridiculous it would look in the history books, that the West Germany, with all its support from NATO, would be taken down by one beautiful redheaded spy who was _invited_ onto campus by the General of the West German Army himself.  
  


* * *

  
Befriending her seemed like the best tactic.  Petyr knew that a girl who had learnt to dance so beautifully, who had dedicated hours to honing that skill, would not have done so just to create a convincing cover.  It was her life’s ambition to be a dancer not a spy.  The HVA were probably exploiting some vulnerability of hers and making promises in exchange for her participation. He knew, because that was sometimes what they did in the West to get their own agent to do what they wanted.

All he had to do was try to find out what her vulnerability was.  She did not seem like a malevolent person, that he could see, and rather than having her locked up for an eternity he thought it was better to find out what she wanted from the HVA so that he could give it to her instead.  Then she may cooperate with them or, at the very least, stop helping the East Germans.

It was raining the day she buzzed into his office, now with that new security pass with General Baratheon’s signature all over it – flaunting her connection. Flaunting _their_ foolishness.

Ros was gone and Joffrey was, ironically, training some of the new recruits. Petyr allowed Alayne in, a little bedraggled and wet from a spring shower, but possibly more perfect than he had ever seen her.  There was a wild energy about her that he couldn’t see behind the perfectly preened façade she usually presented.

“Hallo, Alayne.”  He greeted warmly.  He told himself it was an act but it came much more naturally than that.

“Guten Abend, Generalmajor.”

“Generalmajor?” He smiled stiffly, “That’s very formal…”

“I thought that’s how you wanted it now,” she said, shrugging off her wet rain coat to hang on the heater, “Everything by the book?” He wanted to roll his eyes at her terse words but held back.

“It’s part of my job, Alayne, to ensure everyone who walks into this facility is properly checked out.  I was wrong not to have done it sooner but it was nothing personal.” 

“Oh, really?” Her voice was still soft, but filled with disbelief and with an irritated undertone. “I was under the impression it was _purely_ for personal reasons.” She turned back from the radiator to face him and brushed a hand through her tangled auburn hair.

He had to tell himself not to get distracted by her white blouse, slightly damp and going see-through to reveal, what looked like, a pastel pink bra.  He swallowed very hard, looked into those angry blue eyes.  Quite genuinely angry eyes.

“Because we kissed?” He smirked.  She was a demure young woman, he hoped she would shy away from his bluntness and she did, but not quite enough.

“It was more than just a kiss,” she replied meekly.

Ja, it was. 

“None the less, you are back at the base,” He reasoned, “You have your pass, so I don’t feel like there needs to be any hard feelings between us.”

“That was all because of the General,” she said slowly pacing forward.  He scanned her head-to-toe, wary of what her plan was.  Swallowed hard again. “I’m sure if it were up to you…” she reached him and hesitantly placed her hands on his chest.

“Alayne,” he warned. Her hands suddenly became more confident upon him.

“…if it were up to you I would probably still be standing outside the barriers in the rain,” She continued with a slight smile. Her eyes were a dark, inky blue as they stared back at him and her lemony scent drowned his senses.

“Alayne don’t,” he pleaded again, peeling her hands off his chest by the wrists.  It made no difference, she was his height and he wasn’t trying very hard to keep her away.  She leaned in and brushed her lips against his, the lightest feather-touch of a kiss, as he still clutched her wrists.

When she drew back she had a sly, _commanding_  smile on her face, despite him still holding her wrists in restraint.  She knew she had broken him before _he_ even knew it, and that was so achingly brilliant.

What if…?

He suddenly tugged her lips to his, unthinkingly and to her surprise, letting himself revel in the sweet sensation when she finally sighed and began fiercely moving her lips against his.  His hand moved to cradle her neck, to pull her deeper as his other arm wrapped around her waist tightly, greedily.  He could feel her small hands move all over him: on his chest, fingering his collar, working the buttons of his blazer, until he was helping her pull it off him.

Were they going to do this here? What about Joffrey?

He felt her clothed breasts push against his chest with a moan into their kiss.

Yes, they were going to do this here.  And if she didn’t care about Joffrey he wouldn’t either.

He gently pushed her back to Ros’ desk, telling himself this was _business_ not pleasure as he flicked apart the first few buttons of her blouse, groaning into their kiss when her hand scraped his scalp.

Or at least, it was _as much_ business as it was pleasure.

They pulled apart to breathe, panting slightly while they had the chance and her eyes locked into his, so full of want that it made his cock pulse against her thigh.  He perched her on top of the wooden desk, Alayne kissing his open mouth as Petyr gathered her skirt around her waist and rubbed small circles against the bare skin of her thighs.  He tingled at her touch as she aligned her centre to him and pressed into his clothed hardness, telling him what she wanted. 

He could just fuck her.  He was now rock hard and had no doubt it would feel sublime, but they probably didn’t have long before Joffrey was back and he didn’t want to rush anything.  He wanted to savour every moment.  He wanted _her_ to savour every moment so she would keep coming back to him, he thought, as he began to kiss and lick down her neck.

She threw her head back with a hearty moan when his mouth reached one of her breasts, sucking through the fabric of her bra to bring the nipple to attention before he continued to kiss down her stomach.

“Petyr,” she whimpered, “What...?”

“Lean back,” he smiled against her skin.  When she did, his hand moved under her panties to slowly brush a finger along her slit, sliding it up and down.  Her body arched into his, eliciting a deep groan from within him when he felt how warm and wet she was.  Warm and wet _for him_.

He circled her nub, teasing her until her until her pants turned into ragged gasps.  He breathed against her velvety skin, feeling her clenching at anything she could get her hands on as he coiled her up.

He pulled his fingers away, Alayne whimpering in frustration, and he moved down to slowly remove her panties and admire the view.  She was glistening – so ready for him – and smelled so amazing. 

He leaned in towards the scent of her musk and then gave her slit a long lick.

“Ah, Petyr!” She groaned as her hips bucked into him. “What are you doing?” She asked breathily.  He looked up to see her staring down her body at him with those seductive eyes, dreamy and desperate.  He wasn’t sure if she’d experienced this before.  She was not a virgin, clearly, but he didn’t know if those East Germans knew anything about pleasing women with their tongues.

“You taste as good as you smell,” he rasped; she quivered at the feel of his breath at her centre.  He smiled against her folds, then dipped his tongue entirely within and continued what he started, never breaking eye contact as he licked and sucked at her.  Her thighs trembled as she gasped and thrust against his tongue, and he drunk her up, hot against his tongue.  Her head strained back and hand weaved into his hair, clutching tight, making him moan.

She must have loved the vibrations because she pulled his head further in, her hips rutting more erratically against his mouth. 

“Ah – there’s not much – ah – time.”  She pleaded.  He chuckled lightly - she was right, they didn’t have much time before Joffrey returned – but what she was really saying is that she was close.  He rubbed a hand over his bulging erection just to relieve some of the pressure, and then suckled harder on her clit, determined to make her come with just his mouth.

“Petyr…” she gasped.  He just loved his name on her lips.

It happened so suddenly, her tensing, arching and moaning his name continuously as she came, grinding against his mouth.  He kept his tongue thrusting through her waves and then licked her clean of juices as she quivered with aftershocks, her chest moving up and down rapidly as she caught her breath.

He slumped back on Ros’ chair, entirely pleased with himself and the beautiful scene he’d created in front of him, momentarily forgetting how painfully hard he was, and completely forgetting there was a purpose to all this.

Alayne weakly pushed herself up, a sleepy smile on her face as she pressed off the desk and settled into his lap.  She sighed as she languidly kissed his lips, licking her juices from his beard.  Her hand moved down to slowly unbuckle his belt before she slipped her hand into his boxers and slowly, firmly rubbed his cock up and down.

He grunted into her mouth.

Where had the East Germans found this wicked woman?  He knew they had a culture of nudists out there, but he always assumed that was because they were so sexually repressed that they barely knew there were better things to do when you were naked.  Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but he would have to rethink that one now.

She swiped her thumb over the tip of his cock causing him to involuntarily buck against her.  She smiled and then, with a kiss, slid off his lap onto her knees.  Her blouse was still open, showing her lacy bra but he so wished she was naked when she did this.  He wouldn’t complain though, if she was about to do what he thought.

He heard himself groan at her burning eyes as she released him with a spring from his boxers, a mischievous grin playing across her face.

It fell as soon as the buzzer rang.

Then she was on her feet, patting down her skirt and buttoning up her blouse as Petyr scrambled to the intercom.

“Ja?” He said shortly, his frustration spilling over as he had to tuck himself back in his pants.

_“It’s me Generalmajor, I’m just picking up Alayne.”_

“One moment,” he replied, quickly scanning the room for any evidence of their activities.

He wiped a smear from the desk’s surface, pushed a couple of the files that had been shuffled aside back into place on Ros’ desk as Alayne smiled and pushed his blazer into his hand with a kiss, musky from her own juices.  He hoped she had a mint or two if she planned on kissing Joffrey with that mouth.  Then he realised how amused she was by the whole, messy situation. She liked danger.

He unlocked the door with a pat to his hair and blazer folded over his arm so it cloaked his groin. 

“Good evening, Herr Generalmajor.”  An unusual politeness in his words destroyed by the impertinent tone.

“Baratheon,” he nodded.

Joffrey’s glare settled behind Petyr, on Alayne as she put on her coat.

“Alayne, you look… like a mess,” he scowled.  Petyr had to smile internally at that.

“I know, I got stuck in a rain storm on the way here.” He saw the tiniest twitch of her mouth, the only indication that it was a little white lie but otherwise she was quite good at this.

Joffrey scrunched his nose.  “Alright,” he droned, “I suppose we’re eating at the house then.  I can’t take you out looking like this.”

Petyr was still half hard when they had left.  He had every intention of doing nothing about, just putting his blazer on and readying himself to go home.  Except he felt a piece of cloth in his pocket, where he kept his keys, and pulled it out to find Alayne’s lacy knickers.  She’d snuck them in his pocket for him and, more importantly, she hadn’t helped herself to his keys.

He smirked a little at the thought that maybe this plan really would work on her. He wouldn’t entertain the thought that maybe she was playing him as much as he was her.  He breathed in the damp lace, her natural scent and the lemon verbena hitting him and turning that semi hard-on into a full blown one.

He was usually pretty good about not doing this, especially not at the office, but he found himself undoing his flies and slipping his hand over his length, moments later finding his release to the memory of her groans in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this chapter quite tough because I wanted to make Petyr's conflict and actions somewhat understandable/ justifiable, and I really hope they are. 
> 
> Let me know if it's a little silly, I promise I won't mind! x
> 
> (As a little bonus for the lack of 80s references in this chapter, except maybe the East German nudists, I decided to give you a song that I can't use in the fic because it didn't come out in '83 or '84: _Rock Me Amadeus_ by Falco. It's actually German and you won't be sorry... you know, if you actually like 80s europop).


	6. Turn Down Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little warning for this chapter: it's mainly plot and very rambly. I'm so sorry but basically the fic is written out and I'm always trying to sharpen it up but this part just wasn't easy to cut down (or my brain wasn't working, I don't know).
> 
> Hope you still enjoy it!

Petyr sipped his coffee as he glanced out of the conference room window at the forest.  The General and many of his other advisors had chosen The Steigenberger Grandhotel for its attractive location and impressive views – they had said the Americans and esteemed NATO Strategist would like it, without considering the fact that this was not a holiday but a business trip, and a very serious business trip at that.  This was meant to deal with their countries’ biggest secrets.

That forest, for all its beauty, was the greatest weakness in this whole set up: there were acres in which to hide and it offered many easy routes onto the grounds.  Petyr had suggested something in town, something that could be properly locked down for them, but it hadn’t gone down well.

Of course, they had taken certain precautions, especially after Petyr’s warning of a possible breach: a large contingent of forty men was brought to patrol the grounds and twenty additional men were guarding the corridors.  Still, it didn’t seem like enough.  It felt like they were waiting for something to happen; or maybe that was just him, he thought, hearing the boisterous crowds behind.

They had already spent hours talking about the current state of each country, political strategy and, of course, their respective military expenditure.  The evening had now descended into more of a social event, which he wouldn’t mind if it weren’t for the tense undercurrent in every conversation - the occasional barb about another nation’s shortcomings, or a misjudged joke that had the effect of unsettling rather than humouring.  It was claustrophobic, to say in the least; and _he_ had the added responsibility of caring for this security report they were all interested in.

“What do you say, Baelish?  I think it’s going rather well,” the Generalleutnant said from behind him. 

Petyr turned back and gave a vacant look, a shrug. “I suppose so.”

“Well, we are in a beautiful hotel with wonderful views, we have made good progress with the discussions and we haven’t had any major security breaches…” Jaime furrowed his eyebrows with a confused smile, “This is all going swimmingly!”

“I will grant you that,” Petyr replied with a polite smile into his coffee, “But we are only a few hours in, Generalleutnant, there is still scope for fights and disappointments.”

Jaime had simply chuckled to himself and gone on to gossip about the new Italian General, barely able to contain his laughter as he told him a story about his trip to a whorehouse.

Perhaps Petyr seemed cynical and paranoid to people like Jaime, but he did not think it was totally unfounded.  His experience told him that for every person striving for NATO to succeed, there was another trying to tear them down. 

They had enemies, and if it wasn’t the East Germans who would cause them trouble this time then it would be the Soviets, or the Chinese, or someone else slightly further down that endless list of adversaries.  So Petyr could not just put on a goofy smile, enjoy the views over Bonn and chuckle mindlessly about his colleague’s infidelity.  If people like Jaime Lannister did not have the good sense to be worried about the chinks in their armour then Petyr would have to do the worrying for them.

“…and do you know how his wife found out?" Jaime hiccoughed with laughter. "The fucker had gum in his pubes!  Some pink, strawberry nonsense that the girl had been chewing on...” He erupted with laughter again and Petyr sneered back, having missed most of the story but he guessed he had heard all that really needed to be heard.

The Generalleutnant continued on as they were ushered out the conference room, told to neaten up for dinner. 

When they started to walk down the corridor to their rooms, a gloved hand cut them off, demanding identification. 

“They have to check the ID of all the people who come through here,” Jaime explained as Petyr handed over his card.  He was, no doubt, extremely proud of himself for organising these most simple of security steps.

“That’s very… thorough.” Petyr offered, as a sort of compliment.  It was his opinion that Jaime should not have the role as Head of Security.  He was a splendid fighter, having proven himself in the field multiple times and earned many medals to prove it, but he was not an operations man and security was very much an operations job.  Still, as Generalleutnant, he was a more senior ranking officer to Petyr – just one below the General, himself – and so blind praise and insincere compliments were expected.

 

When he got back to his room, Petyr couldn’t help but collapse down onto his bed.  He ran a hand down his face only to feel the stubble scratch his palm and his muscles ache with fatigue.  He wished he could say the pain was from some physical exercise but it really seemed to be nothing more than the tension he held within him.

With that thought he reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and removed the floppy disk.  This piece of plastic was why they were all here.  The NATO security report.  It had details of their nuclear war plan, future deployments, target locations.  In other words, it was their “everything,” and it had been burning a hole in his skin the entire day.

He was not going to take it into the bathroom as he showered, though, since it would probably destroy it; there was a magnetic film susceptible to moisture damage, so he locked it away in the safe that the hotel had provided, and checked the door was locked several times before walking off to the bathroom feeling a little lighter.

 

As he stepped inside and shut the door, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, his own green eyes glaring back at him.  It had been days since he had seriously considered his appearance (beyond his uniform, of course) and, yes, he badly needed “sprucing up.”

He looked so tired, and untended.  Old, if he was being honest with himself.  He peeled off the layers of his uniform, briefly glancing at the unsightly scar - made by Brandon Stark’s hand - which ran down his torso.  He had been with Alayne this time last night.  Somehow, he didn’t believe that this was the person she had imagined herself with, stretching her legs open so he could eat her out.  But that really wasn’t the point of all this.

This was hardly about whether they suited each other.  They were using each other, and they could continue to do so while both saw a purpose in it.

He stood in the glass enclosure and let the warm water fall over him, imagining her on that desk, what it felt like to feel her drenched and trembling under his lips.  He felt himself stirring with just the memory but he wouldn’t allow himself to go further.  He wasn’t some teenage boy. 

But his fingers brushed his nipples while he soaped over his body and it sent a prickling wave through him.  Mindlessly his hand worked further down his chest and abdomen until he was holding himself, rigid and heavy in his hand.  His body set a pace for itself, an easy stroke as he conjured images of her.  Smooth pearly thighs, silky red tresses between his fingers, glistening folds with that potent smell of arousal. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, gripping himself harder and thrusting his hips with more vigour.  He had to brace himself with his other hand on the shower wall.

He tried to think what would have happened if Joffrey hadn’t turned up last night. God, she’d been so close to wrapping those swollen pink lips around him.  And so _willing_.  He pumped harder at the memory of her kneeling between his legs with her cunning smile; that beautifully curved neck, dewy with sweat and pink lacy bra on show.  What was underneath?  He almost groaned the question out loud, and hoped to God that he would get to find out. 

Her breasts had felt so full and perky against him.  He was imagining rosy-pink nipples, hardening for him. Waiting to be sucked.

"...Oh God..."

Teetering close to the edge, he fisted faster over his cock and growled lowly at the wave of heat growing from his tip.  He was suddenly hyper aware of the rooms next to him, the fleshy sounds and groans he was making should have been drowned out by the shower but he couldn’t be sure.  He clenched his jaw to silence himself, panting forcefully as he repeated, “Alayne, Alayne” in his mind.  It didn’t sound right - it sounded like a lie - so he just played those beautiful sounds she made in his head.  The sinful cries of, “Petyr” –

His head rolled back when he finally came, a small moan catching at the back of his throat.  Standing for a moment, he let the water batter his face before he looked down at the mess that was slowly washing away, along with that will power and self-control he had always prided himself on.

So he really wasn’t much better than a teenage boy.  And with a groan he remembered her panties, still in the top drawer of his desk. They would undoubtedly come back to haunt him at the most inappropriate of times.

 

It took him a short while to wash himself clean once again, tend to his beard and then pull the dark blue towelled robe around him before leaving the sanctuary of his bathroom.

He was surprised to see a woman in his room.  The smallest part of him relaxed when he saw she was wearing a maid’s uniform but he still could not shake off the unease.  How long had she been here? Had she heard him doing _that_ in the next room? 

Why was she here at all?

She had been fiddling with the glasses and bottles on the coffee table but stopped as soon as he entered, drawing herself in defensively when he gave her a perplexed look.

“Why are you here?” He asked slowly and rather impolitely, he later realised, while his eyes were still surveying the room for any other disruption.

“Turn down service,” she replied with knitted brows, as if it was terribly obvious.

Had he really left his cupboard door open?

He blinked hard at her. “Wie bitte?”

“Turn down service,” she repeated slowly, “It is where we prepare the room for the night.”  He narrowed his eyes at her, wondering whether that assertiveness - verging on impertinence - which she spoke with was unusual for someone in service.  

“Well… I didn’t ask for it.”

“It is complimentary, mein Herr.” She smiled fakely back.  He understood, of course, that the smile would be fake.  A maid would visit many rooms over her workday and was expected to be just as courteous to each guest, at some point it must become a real strain on her.  Perhaps he was being overly suspicious, but there was something about _this_ girl and _this_ smile that seemed particularly troubling to him.

“Oh, well… Thank you, but I don’t think I need it.  So could you just… leave?” He had moved closer to the door, extending an arm to it in a obvious insistence.

She did a strange curtsy from her corner of the room and walked towards him and the door with another artificial smile.  “Of course.”

That accent… he noted that it wasn’t German.  He didn't mind that this person could be from another country, he couldn’t blame someone for coming to a new country to start a better life, but it sounded Rus–

 _Thwack._  

He felt a sharp blow between his ribs making him keel over instantly.  He desperately gasped for the air she had smacked out him.  Then another heavy wallop to the back of his head knocked him down to the floor. 

Fuck.  He had taken his eyes off her for a mere second.

He tried to grab her ankle as she stepped over him, instead, tripping her up so she fell against the coffee table and chairs.  The glasses and bottles crashed to the ground, some shattering, and he struggled to his knees to catch her as she clambered away.  He clawed at her leg, clamped her down but she kicked and butted against him while one of her hands scrabbled for the floor, the furniture, anything to stop him pulling her back. The other was grasping around her skirt, and that was when he saw it: a glint of a blade, strapped to her thigh.

He pulled her leg harder and tugged at the strap, quickly snapping it before her foot caught him in the jaw.  The knife clattered to the floor under one of the chairs.  He couldn't reach it, but he would try his damned hardest to stop her from getting it too.  Her arm swung at him with a glass bottle as he tried to push her down, narrowly missing him, and he used that chance to kick away the blade from both of them.

He desperately tried to pin her flailing arms but she struck him, hard in the nose with her bottle making him recoil with the searing pain.

When he opened his eyes she was half way to the window - the _open_ window.  That wasn't his doing.  He found himself lunging at her and flinging them against the cupboards.  His body against hers, hands at her neck and her fingers desperately hooking into the pressure points behind the jaw sending sharp pricks of pain around his face.  Definitely Russian, he thought, only they trained in those grips.  His grasp tightened and he thought, in that moment, that he would have to kill her with his own hands.  His ears rang sharply and suddenly he wasn't thinking of the fight or the pain, only looking at her wisps of blond hair – almost so blond it was white – and her grey-blue eyes with the diminishing light in them.  It was strange, in that moment all he could think of was how his mother – bless her soul – had always told him to be a gentleman, especially to women.  This was hardly going to be gentlemanly.

A sharp rap on the door brought him back to the present, and then, “Herr Generalmajor?  Is everything alright?” A boyish voice called from behind it.

“Just get in here you morons!” He shouted back through his clenched jaw, looking at the girl coughing and spluttering at him in his hands.

There were a few hefty thumps on the door before it gave in and two men fell into the room, taking in the image of their slight Generalmajor with a robe wrapped around his naked form and hands round the maid’s neck.  Petyr knew there were many ways to interpret such a scene and none of them made him look particularly good.

They took hold of her quickly, while she gulped and gasped for breath with shaking hands.  

Petyr staggered back, bent over and braced himself on his knees for a short moment to regain his composure.

“I know how this looks,” he gestured to his loosened robe, looking at the ground instead of risking the looks of judgement in those boys’ eyes, “But _she_ attacked _me_ …" He panted, "Sheisse – ”

He suddenly remembered.  He practically jumped to the safe, twisting the combination into the dial until it gave that distinctive click.  Then he opened the door to find… nothing.

Nothing.

In an instant he had swung himself round and clamped a hand on her jaw.  Ignoring all their protests.

“Where is it?” He gritted, bringing his face suffocatingly close to hers.  One hand squeezed her by the cheeks and the other flapped frantically at her skirt pockets, searching for the disk.  He was fully aware of how inappropriate he was being but there was no misinterpreting his fumbling.  There was nothing sexual about this, only complete and utter desperation. 

She met him with a murderous stare and simply spat in response.

He turned his face and closed his eyes at the impact, hitting him straight beside his tender nose.  She was really testing his patience, he thought, as he wiped away the warm saliva with disgust, noticing the blood mixed in it.  He didn’t know whether it was from her mouth or his face.

“Find a room and handcuff her.  Watch her like a hawk,” he instructed slowly.  “I want her searched and questioned.”

He readjusted the robe to better cover himself, very aware of one of the men looking at his scar.

“And I want to see the General and Generalleutnant as soon as possible.” 

He didn't know how he was going to explain this all.  How this girl had got in the room, how he was found in a most compromising position.  Most importantly, how he had lost that report with everything worth knowing about the NATO alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little plot heavy - probably the most plot heavy this fic will ever get - and with a lot of scene setting of what it may be like in the army, to have all that responsibility etc. 
> 
> Hopefully not too tedious but please let me know! x
> 
> And I'll try to get the next chapter up soon since this isn't the most ideal cut off point but it was really the only place where the chapter wasn't like 6000 words long...


	7. Shitfest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I promised with the last chapter that this would be up quickly but I read through it and felt it was too rambly and long. I ended up basically re-writing so it took a while. As it is plot heavy and events follow directly from chapter 6, I would suggest (if you have the time and patience) that you re-read chap. 6 before getting onto this. I think it'll make slightly more sense ;)
> 
> Also, note (in order of seniority): Robert Baratheon = General, Jamie Lannister = Generalleutnant, Petyr Baelish = Generalmajor.
> 
> Sorry for the long chapter but hopefully it's okay :) We properly get back to Sansa next chapter.

The next day Petyr sat at the conference room table, writing things in his notebook that he never intended to read again.  He had learnt that in these meetings you either had to look busy doing something or you looked your colleagues in the eye, and he couldn’t really do the latter right now without feeling significant discomfort.

A tap on his shoulder made him look up to see one of their young men pass another folded note to him, which was the usual way to get messages across to individuals that you didn’t want to say to the whole room.

 _Shitfest_ , it read.  In Jaime’s scrawling handwriting.

Petyr looked to the others.  The grave expressions, tautological conversation and untouched breakfast pastries were certainly unusual for these men. They all looked lost and scared, like little boys, not the imperious commanders they truly were. Ja, it was a shitfest.

It was only then that Petyr realised the three of them, Robert, Jaime and himself – the West Germans – were sitting side by side at the head of the large table, with everyone looking at them.  Whether it was intended or not, this was an interrogation of twenty-three versus three.  Still, this felt better than the situation he had found himself in last night.

 

He still remembered the way Robert and Jaime had stormed into his room, throwing all manner of questions at him.  What were the men talking about?  What happened to the report? What is this business with the maid?

He had found it difficult to answer, not least because there were so many questions, but also the fact that he still had a tissue pressed to his bleeding nose and felt a little light headed after his bedroom brawl.  He presumed that was the jaw grip the girl had him in; if she had pressed any harder or the men had taken half a minute longer to respond then Petyr would have been unconscious and she could easily have been on her way out of there.

Jaime and Robert hadn’t seen that as a positive.  The fact was that report was gone, and they had no idea who or how it was taken.  The only things they seemed to know about was Petyr’s robe and the maid in his room. In the most perverse game of _stille post_ , there were rumours that he had tried (in the most horribly clichéd way) to slip in “a quickie” with the maid just before dinner, others claimed they were engaging in some kinky sex game and - the most harmful - that he had tried to make of a move on her and when she rejected him, he got violent.

“Ordinarily no one would care what you do in your alone time, but here?  With this event?” Jaime had shouted.  Forced or unforced didn’t matter to them, it seemed, they were only concerned about the _poor timing_ of his supposed liaison, the fact that Petyr might have been distracted by it and so left them with this mess regarding the report.  Regardless, Petyr didn’t want to be known for either rape or carelessness.

“No, no,” he had mumbled, blood from his saturated tissue had started to dribble down his hand.  “I didn’t do anything.  She was just _there_ when I came out of the shower, I challenged her and then she attacked me.”  He uncaringly threw aside his tissue, snatched a white hotel towel and held it to his blood-smeared nose, adding fervently, “She’s a spy!”

He hated it when people looked at him sceptically.  He was so used to his opinion being respected but neither of them seemed convinced, even when he told them of the window being opened, her Russian accent, the KGB-style jaw grip.  Even when he mentioned her knife.

“It is a hotel full of army men, maybe she felt the need to carry self-protection.  I would say she was proven right…” Jaime had replied tersely.  It was probably the smartest retort he had ever come up with but at entirely the wrong time.

It had felt like a losing battle until Petyr had demanded the list of hotel employees from the Generalleutnant.

“I vetted the staff.” Jaime had said defensively while Petyr leafed through the photos and names, “I told you, the men have to ask for identification when they enter the corridors.”

He slammed the file shut, alarming both Jaime and the General. “Well she’s not there, so either she came through the window or your men let her through.  Either way, security failed; and since _she_ doesn't have the report, it seems they failed at least _twice_.”  It was callous of him to sound so triumphant but he did, and it would be a lie to say he didn’t feel some relief when Robert turned his frustrations on Jaime.

He sat back as it slowly dawned on Generalleutnant Lannister that the men, sincere as they were in their checks, had not all interpreted his orders as intended.  He hadn’t been clear with them.  They had checked every army man that walked around the hotel without fail, mistakenly assuming an enemy intruder would be a burly, six-foot something man – much like them – but not all thought to check the employees and this blonde maid had simply walked straight through to Petyr’s room.  Afterall, the mark of good staff was to be invisible, and few could imagine their foe to be a petite maid.

“I don’t want to hear either of your excuses,” Robert bellowed at Jaime’s muttering.  “The fact is, I have a Head of Security that can not keep a small hotel secure, and a Head of Intelligence who knows nothing!  And now it is my job to go downstairs and explain to twenty-three other NATO officers that the very report we are all here for has disappeared.  Into thin air,” he added, with a surprisingly delicate gesture of his hands.  “And after all this, we’re expecting them to trust us when we say that we are ready to deploy the Pershing Missiles on West German soil.”

“We may be able to get the report back,” Jaime said lamely. 

“Get me _answers_ you imbeciles!” The General gave them both a disgusted glare, then roughly picked up his blazer and left the room with a shattering slam of the door.  They were left in an uncomfortable silence - fearfully eerie after the dressing down they had both received - before Petyr suddenly got himself together and dressed for his battle. 

When he finally got back in front of the girl to question her, purple bruises forming at her neck and eyes bloodshot from his assault, she had the audacity to maintain that he had tried to violate her.

“I don’t know what report you’re talking about, I’m just a maid,” she had said innocently.  Jaime and the man they had called from the local polizei were standing behind her so had missed the crafty look she gave him.  “But I suppose that’s why you thought you could try it on me,” she sneered.

“I didn’t touch you.” He spat back.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Alter Lustmolch,” she scoffed, turning her face away.  Dirty old man.

He sprung from his seat with a clenched jaw.  Somewhere in the corner of his eye he saw the policeman and Jaime jerk forward, expecting him to reach across the table and start strangling her again.  But Petyr was not that man.  He didn’t fight them, he fucked them.

So he dropped a file down in front of her. “The latest hotel employee records… that you don’t appear in.”  Another file dropped. “A picture of your knife with a rising sun etched into the hilt.  A communist symbol.  Commonly used in the Soviet Union.” The last file in his hand dropped. “The list of KGB agent training criteria that we have managed to obtain.  Number twelve – pressure point attacks.  Subsection d – jaw grips.”  He finally leaned forward so his nose was but inches from her scowling face, this time no one moved to stop him. “Not to mention that accent of yours.”

He had pulled back from her to fully appreciate her body language shrinking from confidence to apprehension, the small glimmer of fear he saw in her eyes once you got past the several layers of murderous indifference she tried to put up.

He spelled it out for her. “You’re a Soviet spy, and unless you can refute my evidence I suggest you start talking.”

She had not been able to fault his conclusion but, clearly, she would not offer answers up so readily.  It had taken virtually the whole night to make her talk.  All lost their patience, their orientation, their sense.  But ultimately _she_ was the one with the secrets.  The worst they could do was ask a stupid question; she had to maintain her ignorance. 

At around three in the morning – after six hours of interrogation – she had finally broken.  A slip of the tongue revealed that it was not her that had opened the window or broken into the safe but she didn’t know who it was.  And Petyr believed her.  She was too tired to deceive. 

It told them what they already suspected, there would be many agents attempting to get this report, so any enemy could have it. 

“I don’t understand why the KGB would send an agent in.  Surely you know that any of your allies would automatically deliver the report to Russia?” He asked.

Of course there were the Chinese – they weren’t Soviet allies and wanted this as much as the Russians – but otherwise Russia had a good chance of getting this eventually.  The young woman's face and her silence said it all:  there was disquiet in the Soviet camp, between them and their satellite states.  A lack of trust in each other’s competence, a desperation and growing hostility.

He rose with a smile on his tired face.  Of course, they always made themselves feel better by saying that their enemies suffered the same challenges, but he rarely got to see that for himself.  He had reports flying across his desk every day that made them out to be organised, poised, united and _strong_ – the complete opposite of what he sometimes saw in the NATO alliance.  That moment of silence between him and the ash-blonde woman was one of immense satisfaction.

To see them faltering.

 

“Baelish?” The General’s voice brought his attention back to the conference room meeting, back to the circular conversation he had zoned out of, “Do you have any suggestions of how to proceed?”

He schooled his face and crumpled up the ‘shitfest’ note. “Herr General, if you are asking if I have intelligence of who may have taken the report and where it might be – I do not.  If I had such information we would not be in the room right now.  The KGB girl didn’t know and I am inclined to believe her, but if you want my suggestions moving forward – ”

“Yes, I do.” He said sternly, before his face set into one of expectation like all the others in the room, focusing entirely on him.

Petyr flicked his eyes around the table quickly.  How was it, that in the few moments he had been staring out of the window this monumental blunder had suddenly become _all_ his problem to solve?

“Well,” he straightened in his chair, “Before we know what to do, we have to know what we have lost. It strikes me that we did not even have a chance to hear what the report says before it got stolen.  I believe Doctor Tyrell may be able to enlighten us?”

He was pleased, for a moment, that the weight of expectation and steely glares had momentarily shifted to the meek, Frenchman.  Willas Tyrell was a handsome and intelligent man with extraordinary manners, who may have turned out to be arrogant and conceited had it not been for his accident, which left his leg permanently damaged, and his confidence shattered.  He was a man who had thrown himself into his books and numbers after his accident; Petyr knew, because he could see some vague similarities with himself, except Petyr had chosen to grow cynical in the face of adversity and Willas simply more humble.

Willas had diligently recounted the information within the security report: exact locations of weapons, any potential targets, the programs NATO countries were developing and the ones they were due to begin.  When it came to nuclear war strategy, the young man got decidedly uncomfortable.

“I have carried out a number of analyses, with various scenarios.  All of them point to the same thing, regardless of the way in which we progress:  total escalation.” The sounds of papers and pens suddenly died away. “There may be death by the millions, we will not be able to contain the attacks, and those who survive may suffer the after-effects of exposure to the nuclear material for many generations to come.  It is, therefore, in my humble opinion that we should never consider the use of nuclear weapons for a pre-emptive strike.  This is about winning a war that we are forced into, but we _do not_ want to start it.”

“So we are developing these missiles for what? To have them stand idle while the Soviets laugh at us, sitting like lame ducks?” Robert roared.

“Non, non – ” Tyrell panicked, slipping back into his mother tongue.

Petyr interjected to relieve the young man. “I believe, Herr General, what the Doctor is trying to say is that the mere possession of such weapons may act as a deterrent.  If all our adversaries carry out similar analyses, reaching the same conclusion of… What did you call it, Doctor?  Total annihilation?”

“Escalation.” Tyrell corrected.

“Another way of saying total annihilation,” Petyr said matter-of-factly.  “But if all of them see that this can only go one way – to destroy themselves as well as us – then we will essentially reach a deadlock where neither side wants to attack.”

The General gave a congested exhale. “A deterrent, you say?  And this was all written in the NATO security report?”

“Oui, Général.” Willas offered.

Jaime shifted forward, “So…apart from divulging information about our weapons, I fail to see why it is a bad thing if the world knows we have them as a deterrent, that we will not use them unless forced.”

“Well, to our nations and our citizens it is better to say they are deterrents; I believe there are activist groups decidedly against such weapons… but it may make us look weak to the enemy, and we are making a presumption that everyone reaches the same conclusion.  If this report falls into the hands of the Soviets or the Chinese, there is no saying how they will react and interpret it.  Whether they will believe we want them only as deterrents or whether they will continue building their arsenal to try and ‘win’ in a potential war.”

There was a long silence, during which Petyr imagined all the people around the table were thinking about the same thing: how easily the report could be twisted or parts ‘conveniently’ forgotten when presenting this to their people.  They knew what information would be left out and what would be relayed when demonising the West.  They would hear nothing about these weapons simply being a detterent.

“So what do we do now?” The American General asked, “How do we mitigate this?”

Again, the eyes were on Petyr.  Ideas man, supposedly.

“Well, I believe we have two options.  Number one, we can try to find who is responsible, step up our surveillance, and get our intelligence services out to recover the material etcetera etcetera.  This would take a long time because it could be any number of countries or agencies.  Our enemies, as we now know, come in all shapes and sizes.” Baelish paused, hesitating to present the next idea.  “The second option is… unconventional. I’m suggesting Doctor Tyrell creates a few more floppy disks with his report but change some of the details, the number of missiles we have, for example, the locations, targets.  Then we feed them, convincingly, to our main adversaries – ”

“What?” Robert asked.

“Flooding the system with information - _conflicting_ information - so they will not know which to trust and may find it difficult to confirm the facts... it happens commonly when a major news story breaks out and no one knows what is true until after much investigation.  If this report is already out there, ready to be passed on to any one of our enemies then we should cast doubt upon its veracity.  There are, of course, risks but we will keep the part about our weapons only being a det – ”

“No.” Robert said firmly.  “We will not just accept that this information is out there.  Baelish, I want you to contact the base now and get your men to start an investigation.  Maybe it is not too late to stop this thing leaving the country.”

Baelish looked to the room, seeing a few faces pause in thought but none wishing to openly side with him.  He nodded his acceptance and excused himself from the room to the secure telephone line set up in the cloakroom. 

He would not say that it was likely the floppy disk had passed through several hands by now – that is how _he_ would organise such a transfer as the Head of Military Intelligence, so they would do much the same.

He made his call to the base, relayed the message and hung up with a sense of foreboding.  They could be reading the document by now.

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm.” Jaime muttered in his ear as he had approached him from behind.  The Generalleutnant sounded unusually tense – not a surprise considering the haphazard crisis meeting they had all just left, but still unusual considering all the years they had dealt with each other.

“You’re mistaking my calmness for indifference – I am far from indifferent – but I don’t think raging and ranting will fix a thing.  I was just waiting for everyone else in the room to realise that,” he said, giving a cursory glance to the mumbling groups of people behind them.

Jaime scoffed at the reasoning and turned from him. “We are going to rake the grounds, _tear_ this building apart if it means finding out who did this,” Jaime shouted back to him as he marched down the hall, clad in his stiff uniform.  That infamous Nazi-vigour ringing hard in his voice as his blond hair flew in the breeze of his movements.

May the devil have mercy on anyone he found.

* * *

   
By the time they left the hotel it was seven thirty.  They had truly pulled apart every room, not quite plundering it in the manner Jaime had wanted, but they had searched every crevice for the assailant that Petyr knew would be long gone.

There were scratches on the outside of the lock that secured Baelish’s window which confirmed that it had been picked, as they had thought, to gain entry to the room and then left it unlocked as they left.  The fourth floor window, was too hard to climb up from the ground and it would take too long to do whilst avoiding detection from the patrolling men.  They had not taken the risk of standing in front of them and being asked for identification like the blonde maid.  

His room had likely been approached by scaling the balconies of the fourth floor after gaining access to the main building.  But how?

The answer came in a janitor’s closet.  When it was opened they found cracker wrappers and a bottle of water tucked under the hamper – evidence of someone’s hideout rather than a cleaner’s snack, but no way of knowing whose.  Petyr had just heard of scientists attempting to map and create DNA profiles, believing it would help with paternity tests and criminal investigations.  There was _potential_ for it, according to those articles, but potential could not help them right now with finding out who this was.  Regardless, taking fingerprints and samples would only be useful if they had an actual suspect to compare it to, and they didn’t.

This person had stayed in the janitor’s closet on the fourth floor, probably hiding before the hotel was even locked down, before they had even arrived with their army and NATO colleagues.  Then they could have hopped out of the window, moved from balcony to balcony (something that would require agility, he thought), and broken into the room and cracked the safe.

Getting away from the hotel was probably less of a challenge.  After all, the patrol group were told to question anyone looking to get in, but they were less likely to question anyone walking away.

 

Solving the mystery of how this was done was not a solace to their group, it was another uncomfortable reminder of how capable their enemies were.  Jaime had decided to stay behind and search the wider forest, ridiculously believing (or desperately hoping) the person they were looking for would still be hiding there, but it had left Petyr to drive the glum General back to his house.

Petyr thought he usually liked silence, and especially with Robert who might have peppered him with questions of either his work or his personal life and women.  Sometimes after such meetings Robert would lewdly ask what sort of whore Petyr thought each of the men around the table would like.  Heavy-set or skinny? Big ‘titties’ or small ‘titties’?  Petyr would smile and laugh along with the game whilst secretly trying to push away the uncomfortable image of people like Willas Tyrell naked and wondering what to do with a woman.

But today, he may even have been up for those conversations if it meant he didn’t have to sit through the uncomfortable silence.

He tried to break it. “Sir, the investigation is already underway and I will contact some of my people in Russia to ask – ”

“I don’t want to talk about that, Baelish.” He grunted.

“Of course, Herr General…. But as a point to note, you should know that the counsel has said it is best not to tell more people than strictly necessary.  These things spread like wildfire and we do not want our men to lose morale or our people to lose confidence in us… so I trust you will not tell your family either?  Not even Joffrey.”

General Baratheon grunted in agreement as he got out of the car, leaving Petyr to collect his bags and take them into the house.  His family and Tywin were settling for dinner, a hefty smell of meat and roasting vegetables in the air as Baratheon’s daughter laid the table.

“Oh, you’re back,” Cersei breezed past carelessly, in a dress that suggested she had not lifted a finger for the meal that was to be presented.  Her eyes just barely registered Baelish or her husband, but she still stopped dead.  “Wo ist mein Bruder? Jaime?”

Robert simply walked towards the dining table, leaving Baelish to answer. He wondered if Robert was blind to the unusually close relationship between his wife and her brother.

“He stayed at the hotel to finish up some work,” Petyr explained.  He effortlessly put on an uncaring and casual tone for the sake of the room.

She rolled her eyes and walked towards the dining room, leaving him to hang in the hallway and wait for some dismissal from Robert who had already thrown back a glass of scotch.  He was about to turn, leave the unhappy family to be unhappy.

“How did it go?” A low thunderous question emanated from the head of the table.  Tywin was one of those men who was technically retired but, in spirit, he never would be.

Robert looked meaningfully at Baelish, remembering his suggestion in the car.  He held the scrunched mouthful of liquor in his mouth to feel the burn before he swallowed. “Fine,” he replied shortly.

Petyr smelled her before he even saw her, sweet lemon cutting through meat.  She skimmed unnecessarily close to his body while carrying a casserole dish from the kitchen to the dining room, brushing herself past his arms and hands.  She was wearing an off-the-shoulder blouse, like she had known he would come to the house.  Like she knew how he dreamed of kissing her velvety skin -

“And will the Generalmajor be joining us?” Tywin asked in a way that surprised Petyr, perhaps due to his minor distraction but most probably because it was a request he would never expect.  No doubt he had just read Robert’s lie.  He was, perhaps, hoping that Petyr would be tempted to spill the secret, since he should surely consider himself lucky to have a meal at their grand table. 

His eyes momentarily caught on Alayne’s toned dancer’s legs wrapped in tight black leggings that were fashionable these days with younger women.

“I – ” He managed to begin an excuse without sounding distracted but Robert interrupted.

“Baelish has a lot of work to do,” he said.

Petyr caught Alayne’s rear curving over the table as she put a dish down.  Her face looked blank and uncaring but he felt she was absorbing the entire conversation - waiting for something significant to be said - he could see by the way she fiddled with the tableware that she was trying to buy herself time in the room. 

Right then was the first time he had even considered her as a possible suspect.  He’d thought of her many times (perhaps too many) while they were at the convention, but oddly enough it hadn’t occurred to him that she may have been the one to actually steal the report - relaying the information about the convention was one thing, but being the one to actually _break in_ was another.  It was a possibility, for sure, but he thought it was slim; there were any number of people after that thing and she was so young and delicate.  They would send someone more experienced to do it, and someone like that feisty blonde who could wrestle any of the army men.

Petyr’s eyes darted back to Robert, “Ja… I must go back to base.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Tywin said, bringing his red wine to his lips.

Alayne, again, walked towards him with a polite, practiced smile as she swept locks of her red hair off her shoulders.  When she brushed past he couldn’t help his hand, hanging by his side, twitching towards hers.

“I suspect there’ll be quite a few long nights,” he added as he opened the door to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... was it too much plot and politics? And, most importantly, does anything seem slightly stupid? Don't worry, it's back to Petyr/Sansa next chapter.
> 
> I'm sorry if anyone got offended by the disregard for rape and the false accusations by the maid, but both happened and still happen, unfortunately.
> 
> Let me know what you all think in the comments :)


	8. Inebriety and Absurdity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start with a big sorry for all the people who read/ commented/ gave kudos and have generally been really supportive of this piece; I know I have gone for months without an update...Sorry! And an especially huge sorry goes to anyone I lied to (unintentionally, of course) and promised an imminent update. Oops.
> 
> I'll let you all read in peace and explain myself in the after notes. I'm not super happy with the chapter but I _am_ happy that it's out and that I snuck in some ultra-80s Bonnie Tyler ;) 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it x

Army socials.  They were something they did about three times a year: a few of the divisions would come together and take over a local pub for a night – tonight it was _The Radegast_.  Apparently, it was about ‘boosting morale’ and camaraderie across the ranks but, in reality, it was just some of the senior officers congregating around a table, wondering when it was acceptable to leave while the rest of the men had another one of their usual Friday nights.  They would sometimes bring their girlfriends or young wives, and the secretaries may bring some of their friends along so it was generally quite an upbeat event for them, but it was rarely enough for those of higher ranks.  They thought themselves too old for these things, unable to keep up with the younger men when it came to drinking or flirting or dancing.

Add to that the fact that these socials had an uncanny knack of following some particularly grave news.  Last time it was the deployment of new Soviet weapons, this time it was that damn NATO security report hanging over their heads.  Petyr had spent the whole day since the convention trying to reach various operatives to track down the missing report but, so far, no one had delivered anything of use.  He had reached dead-end after dead-end, each time having to convince himself that the hours and efforts were not wasted on a lost cause, that there was a chance to undo what had happened.  But he was never as good at lying to himself as he was to others.

It was fair to say that with everything going on at NATO and with the Soviets, a party was the last thing on any of the officers’ minds, but the men weren’t meant to know about all that – the incompetence of their superiors – so they were to keep up appearances and go to this silly event.

The bierhaus was in full swing when Petyr arrived, with the sounds of drunken laughter and cheer, and a table already marked out for those too serious to mingle. He had greeted his wretched companions and nodded along to innocuous conversations about their children and their horrible music, schools for the children, children in short skirts, children taking drugs.  He endured a whole five minutes before deciding that he could not survive the night like this, sober and bored shitless.

It took only a mumbled excuse before he was making his way through the throngs of people to the bar.

He had, in theory, expected the crowds, the sticky floors and bar tops flooded with stale beer.  But the reality was far worse.  He found himself sandwiched between a stumbling fool and a couple intent on eating each other’s faces off, while he waited for his _pint_.  Petyr was not the kind to drink pints of anything if he could help it.  Not unless it had suddenly become appropriate to drink scotch by the pint-ful.

Then he was suddenly pushed forward, forced to brace himself against the soaked bar top.

“Mist,” he muttered, flicking the excess off of his sleeve.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He heard a giggle behind him and a hand run _very_ liberally along his back, before a girl drunkenly fell against the bar top next to him.  “I hope I didn’t ruin your uniform,” she grinned.

He looked up to see her eyes run unashamedly up his frame, so boldly he could only assume it was down to drink.  That, or youth.

“Nein, it’s not a problem.” He looked at the wet patch on his sleeve in disdain. “It’s nothing a dry-clean can’t fix,” he finally said, to be polite. 

He clenched his mouth into a sort of smile – all he could muster in his irritation – and looked properly at the girl for the first time.  She was audacious in every way: a black bra on show beneath a netty (and quite redundant) lace T-shirt, frilly skirt, bow hairband, and all manner of bracelets and cuffs decorating her wrists.  When she cocked her head at him he could see her wavy brown hair, falling just on her shoulders, had streaks of blue brushed into the ends. This was West Germany’s reply to Cyndi Lauper.

“Oh gut!” She met him with a toothy grin, looking genuinely relieved as she leaned into the bar and took out her box of cigarettes. “Because you look very important.  I wouldn’t want to get on wrong side of you,” she added with an arch to her brow.

He automatically offered her his lighter.

“Oh, I’m not that important,” Petyr replied while she took a deep bend forward to the flame, staring at him with keen, purple rimmed eyes. She was giving him a very different, very _revealing_ angle of her ample breasts and he could only grimace slightly at, what he assumed, was her attempt to flirt.  To extract a drink out of him.

Petyr’s eyes subconsciously darted around the room for somewhere to drink his horribly bitter brew in peace. Amusing as this may be, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see the whole show – the exaggerated laughter and deliberate touches.  Like most army men, he knew a thing or two about false intimacy, and he had never particularly enjoyed it.

“Can I get you something?  A drink maybe?” He asked, if only to break the silence that had fallen between them and get her on her way. 

She swayed forward. “Nein, I shouldn’t. Last time I was at one of these things I got so drunk I ended up tearing my dress.  It split right up the leg.”  She unconsciously (or perhaps rather consciously) drew one side of her short skirt up a few inches for an unnecessary demonstration. “I vowed never to embarrass myself like that again,” the girl grinned.

He nodded obligingly and checked an eyebrow that threatened to creep up.

“ _That_ night was really crazy.” She continued, “It wasn’t an army-do, though, it was a cast party. I’m an actress, you know?” And from the deep inhale of her cigarette and wide smile, he could tell that she was clearly very proud of it too.  She probably expected him to ask questions, maybe she was even a little famous, but what could he say?  He didn’t have time for these things.  He could hardly remember the last time he had watched anything but the news.

“I was in _Veronika Voss_ ,” she added with a puff.

“Really?” He asked absently, just at the moment he spotted a flash of scarlet in the corner of his eye. “What did you play?”

“I was ‘Girl-in-Club,’ No. 23…”

He made a show of smiling and nodding some more while the girl chattered on, oblivious when he cast his eyes back to the far end of the room and found the redhead once again.  

Of course Alayne would be here.   He had assumed as much, especially since these things were always taken as an opportunity to show off your wife or girlfriend, and she was certainly someone to brag about.

She was laughing about something, the same dimpled smile he had seen her make at him just a few days ago, but his memory of her had not done her justice.  Or rather, the thought of what she represented – the danger, the fear, the weakness – made her seem uglier in his mind’s eye.  _Right now_ , however, he was torn.  Part of him wanted to slam her against the wall and squeeze the bloody truth from her throat; the other, very destructive part of him, wanted to pin her against a wall just to feel every inch of her body against his.   

“… so what about you?” The slight lilt of a question drew his mind back to the brunette in front of him.  “What is it that you do? I mean, in the army.”  She had said the last word with such reverence in her voice.

“Oh… Ich bin der Generalmajor.” He replied distractedly.  He was still watching Joffrey, just over the girl’s shoulder, pulling Alayne into his body with one arm, beer sloshing out of the pint glass he held in the other.  She smiled into him and swayed a little, as if to dance.  Like his toy.

“Wow!”  The young woman’s eyes stretched open and smoke flew out of her mouth with her words.  “You really are important!  _Generalmajor Baelish_.”  She sounded his name out and reached forward – a little alarmingly – to run her fingers over the embroidered name on his blazer pocket.

“It’s just a job,” he shrugged stiffly, all the while staring down his nose at her fingers as they fiddled with the pocket and stitched badges.

“Oh?” Her hand dropped from him, “But it’s only you and a few others who command the whole of the West German Army.  You protect us against the Russians and their terrible weapons.”

He breathed a laugh – a genuine laugh – because she had made everything out to be so simple.  As if they were superheroes.

“It’s not nearly as glamorous as you seem to think,” he said, sipping his glass and concentrating a weak smile on the girl.

She had tilted her head and gazed back with a look of palpable innocence, as if she could not possibly fathom what he means.  For a moment he thought it was all part of the act, a flirtatious tease aimed to inflate his ego.

But it was no seduction tactic.  No, he could see in her eyes that she truly didn’t understand what he could mean by it.

“There’s no honour in it,” he explained plainly.

Her brows furrowed.  Prettily, he had to admit; confusion suited her. “I think you’re a good man…”

He took another long sip of beer and shook his head. “No, these young men around you,” his index finger uncurled from the glass to point at the crowds, “ _They_ are good men.  They joined for their country, for their families.  But then you reach a point where…it’s not about good or evil – morality plays no part.  It is about power and how to get more of it.” His eyes settled on Alayne, if just for a moment, “So it’s harder to tell whether you are making the right decisions... If you’re winning.”

A long silence followed, not that he particularly cared, but he hadn’t expected to be so honest.  With her or with himself.

“Do you want to dance?” 

He jerked his head at the question in surprise. For one, it didn’t fit with anything that had just been said, and secondly, it was a surprise to him that she as still there.  Maybe he had misunderstood.

But then the young woman repeated her question, blinking with hope.  Flashing turquoise and purple eyelids.

“I don’t really dance – ”

“Come on!” She grasped one of his hands and stubbed out her cigarette in the flood of beer, “It’s a slow song.”

He found he had little choice in the matter as he was pulled away, and soon he was letting her place his hands on her waist, smooth hers up to his shoulders.  He looked up at just that moment.  Just to see Alayne snap her eyes off him.

She was watching him too.

It was not unexpected – she was a spy after all – and he had never usually troubled himself on such things as being watched (since his apparent indifference and good manners covered all manner of sins).  But it was a _different_ feeling.  He had never been a chased; that was usually _his_ job.  He was used to being invisible, used studying rather being studied.

It was strange to think that while he had been watching the beautiful redhead artfully manipulate her date – slowly shifting Joffrey’s grasp from her rear to waist, turning her face away from his advances – that she may, in turn, have been watching Petyr’s every move.

He did not know whether he cared for the feeling.

 “Alles gut?” The young woman asked up at him after a small while.  He had not really been moving with the music.

Petyr blinked down to her.  “Ja, I did say I wasn’t a good dancer,” he smirked.

Then he willed himself to concentrate.  However bizarre it may be for him to be dancing, he had to appear relaxed, even if it was horribly uncomfortable to have his hands curled intimately around the waist of a girl he barely knew, with these overly-romantic lyrics about  ‘never being wrong together’ being belted into his ears. He consciously checked his face, made sure to look natural and unsuspecting.

A while later he dared to look to rest of the room, the corner in which Alayne had been, and saw no sign of her.   


* * *

  
Petyr found himself outside _The Radegast_ under a darkening sky, leaning with his back against the stonework as he smoked.  He had been out here for some time now – the three cigarette butts on the ground were evidence of that – his attempt to get away from the stench of booze and sticky sweat that still obstinately clouded his senses. 

He heard the sound of shoes grit on the ground close to him.

“Petyr.”

He had to smile to himself.

“Alayne,” he replied evenly.  His head turned and eyes opened to the woman standing to his side, shrouded a little by a trail of his smoke.

“Do you mind if I join?”

Petyr gestured weakly with his hand. “Of course not.  It’s a free country.” 

He exhaled a particularly large cloud and by the time is had cleared he could see her circling around him.  She was only moving off-wind from his smoke but it still felt oddly hostile, like a hyena. 

“Mmm-hmm, but you’re hiding.” She finished circling, her hands tucked into the pockets of her black jacket before she perched her back against the wall next to him. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be back here.”

She was right, of course.  He had specifically rounded the corner of the building to avoid being dragged into more dancing or chitter-chatter, so the only people to find him would be the ones who knew where to look.

When he didn’t answer she said, “It’s okay, I’m hiding too.”  She gave him a sideways smile even though he was not looking at her. “It’s hard being around so many people for so long.”

Well, it certainly was difficult to live behind a veil of lies for so long; he knew something of that himself.

“The sweat and heat?” He asked flippantly, not wanting to give too much of his own mind away.

“And the conversations.”  She scratched her heel mindlessly on the ground.  She was wearing those damned boots again.  “They all tend to get a little mundane and circular at these things.” She paused.  “I see you met Myranda?”

He furrowed his brows. _Who?_

“The actress?” She prompted, pointing back at the building.

“Oh. Right.” He nodded back.  He had almost forgotten the whole thing, although he had to wonder how he managed to get through that half hour without learning the girl’s name. He had even danced with her. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Alayne nodded before quirking her lips. “She seemed to really like you.  Called you _brooding_ and _mysterious_.”

Petyr raised his eyebrow, gave a wry smile in return. “She is a very proficient actress.”

Alayne laughed lightly, a lyrical thing that lit up her beautiful face. “I’m not sure that was acting, actually.”

“I don’t think I would be her type, being in the Army.  She doesn’t exactly seem...” He searched for a word. “Conventional.”

Alayne shrugged, “That’s what she wants you to think.  Really she is very traditional, and she likes men in uniform.  That’s partly why she’s here.”

Petyr dropped his cigarette butt to the ground to stamp it out. “There are plenty of younger men in uniform – ”

“You are not old,” she said, looking earnestly into his eyes.  His attempt to break eye-contact only resulted in him settling on her lips, at which point he thought it best to just to look away from her completely.

“Old enough to be her father,” he added, pointedly.

“Hardly...  and I don’t think she would ever think of her father in the same way she may think about you.”

He looked back at her – stared, even – hoping to discern the meaning in this whole conversation; whether it was still truly about Myranda. 

Her look was soft, wide-eyed and… stunning.  But impenetrable.  She gave him nothing.  The only thing he had learnt, if anything, was how lethal a woman like her could be. She knew how to play Joffrey and, much to his chagrin, she knew very well how to play him.

“This song…” She started suddenly, trying to break the silence because there was clearly much that was not being said.

Petyr cast his eyes to the glowing window next to her, the party he should supposedly be at. “I don’t think I know it.”

“Listen to the lyrics.”

He leaned further back into the wall and furrowed his brows in concentration, but the lyrics were too muffled. “I can’t make them out,” he smirked, “Old man’s hearing, you see.”

Alayne grinned widely and listened to the music for a while.  It surprised him when she started singing, in an untrained but sweet voice.  
  
“ _99 fighter jets_ ,  
_Each one's a great warrior,  
__Thought they were Captain Kirk…_ ”

Petyr stilled as she stepped closer to him, cautious of what she was up to.

“ _…Then came a lot of fireworks,  
__The neighbours didn't understand,  
__And felt like they were being provoked,  
__So they shot at the horizon…”_

She was suddenly pressing gently against him.  His arms had, at some point, wrapped around her waist; her hands gently rested on his upper arms.

“ _…At 99 balloons_ ,” she finished looking intently back.  The lively beat carried on without her.

“It’s anti-war,” he said in a distracted, low whisper.  “Es ist _antimilitaristisch_.”

“It’s Joffrey’s favourite song,” Alayne scoffed. “He and his entire family are part of the army – have been for generations – and his favourite song is one that calls them paranoid idiots.  It’s…”

“Ridiculous?” Petyr supplied.  At the same time he realised how soft the blue velvet of her dress was and how thin a barrier it provided.  It was almost maddening to see and feel her body through the fabric – the curve of her waist, her delicate vertebrae – but know this was only a cheap imitation of the real thing.

Alayne gave an uncertain shrug in answer, searching his face as the song slowed to an end.

 _Today I'm making my rounds,  
_ _See the world lying in ruins.  
_ _I found a balloon,  
_ _Think of you and let it fly away._

She edged closer, hovered her lips dangerously close to his before pressing a chaste kiss, frustratingly, on the very edge of his lips.  He thought of how easy it was to turn his face a little, let his lips find hers, but he couldn’t give into every temptation she laid in his path. 

Petyr shut his eyes in torment and he measured his breathes when she broke from the kiss, her face still close enough to feel her nose brush his cheek.

“If you find him so ridiculous,” he murmured softly, “Then why do you spend your time with him?”

She would admit to nothing, he knew, but even lies could be revealing.

Alayne pulled her face and upper body out of their embrace, their eyes finding each other once again.  The loss of her warmth against him had his fingers grasp a little tighter at her waist to pull their hips together.  He liked that she didn’t resist, that she nestled further into him.

“I’m a dancer,” she said plainly, as if it explained everything.  It certainly did not, and she read past his silence.  Sighing, she asked, “Do you know how much ballet dancers get?”

He shook his head.

“It’s not very much at the beginning, I assure you.  Not even in the National Ballet…” She smiled sadly.  “Sometimes it’s just _nice_ , you know, to have someone give you the things you can’t afford or take you places you wouldn’t otherwise be able to go to.  And Joffrey… he has a good family and he is so free with his money.”

Even if he had not known she was East German spy he would not believe her. 

Maybe it was a reasonable enough explanation for the woman who he saw dutifully serving drinks and laying the table; for the young woman with the sweet manners and a practiced smile.  For Alayne.  But it was not enough for the woman he held in his hands right now.  He did not know her well but, from what he had gathered, she felt too deeply and thought too much to be swayed into a relationship by such shallow gestures.   

“And,” she lifted one hand from his forearms and gently brought it to the side of his neck. “He has time for me,” she smiled weakly, her thumb gently grazed back and forth along his jaw bone. She brought her face closer, his hand unconsciously ran up her back to hold her there. “He doesn’t have long nights at the office,” she whispered, staring down at his lips.  “He doesn’t trouble himself about the fate of the world.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his fingertips gently stroking up and down her spine.

Then she was gone. 

Her warmth left his body, she pulled her hands from his grasp and she stepped far enough away so that he could not smell the citrus scent that followed her.   

“I should go inside, Joffrey will be looking for me,” she said, readjusting her jacket.

The boy was unlikely to be in a state to have such a complex thought, but he did not say that.  Or anything, in fact.  He just watched her leave.

He followed her inside five minutes later, the whole room a pit of inebriety and absurdity.  There was no sign of those he had left at the table a while ago now, only people in various stages of undress, standing on every imaginable surface, holding their faces in drunken despair, pulsing to the music.  It looked almost apocalyptic, and amongst it all he caught the redhead’s eye across the room.  Petyr could not help think he had let her get to him. 

She was getting to him and he couldn’t even know her name.  


* * *

  
Lyrics came from the popular German song  ** _99 Luftballons_ by _Nena_**  which you may be familiar with and I've attached the music video with English translations, just in case you're interested. Despite the lyrics, it's one of the happiest sounding songs, so well worth listening to (plus, there's some great hair going on in the video): 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the chapter was okay? I know it's a bit slow, and I went numb and jelly-brained after a while so let me know how it faired.
> 
> So just to explain what happened, I basically had about 75% of this written out in a huge rambly document on a computer and then - dun dun duuuun - I got the 'blue screen of death' and it was all over. I restored and got a friend to help me but basically I didn't get the latest version I had of this piece, I got some inferior almost-there-but-not-quite version. _Really_ frustrating to look at something and know it was once better so I lost my mojo with this, felt like it was easier to start other pieces afresh, then had loads of university work... ugh! 
> 
> Moral of the story? Back-up your computer regularly ;) But thank you all for bearing with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know how you think it's going in the comments, especially if anything is too confusing!
> 
> APPENDIX  
>  **West Germany (NATO aligned)**  
>  West Germany = Federal Republic of Germany = FRG  
>  _Leader:_ Kohl  
>  _Capital:_ Bonn  
>  Bundeswher - West Germany Army
> 
> **East Germany (Soviet aligned)**  
>  East Germany = German Democratic Republic = GDR  
>  _Leader:_ Honecker, Ulbricht (past)  
>  _Capital:_ East Berlin  
>  HVA - East German Intelligence  
> "Stasi" - Ministry of State for Security in East Germany (nickname for Ministerium für Staatssicherheit)
> 
>  **Soviets**  
>  _Leader:_ Yuri Andropov (mid 1983-84)  
>  KGB - Soviet Intelligence


End file.
